


In the Spring I Shed My Skin

by Drownedinlight



Series: Lionhearted Girl [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Female Harry Potter, Forced Amnesia, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2020-10-19 15:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 101,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20659382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drownedinlight/pseuds/Drownedinlight
Summary: Roswitha Black thought the most difficult thing to happen to her over the next year would be trying to get rid of the Philosopher's Stone. But something strange is happening at Hogwarts -- something the castle itself doesn't seem to know about. Add to her troubles an incompetent defense teacher and her secrets revealed, Roswitha will have a most interesting year indeed.





	1. The Anti-Heist

Dear M & Mme Flamel,

I am writing to express my most sincere apologies about our meeting. You were quite correct in your rebuke of me, and I appreciate your honest words.

Humbly yours,

Roswitha Artemis Black

Dear Miss Black,

Your apology is acceptable for the circumstance. Perhaps now you will learn the virtue of knocking.

Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel

_Excuse me but can I be you for a while,_

  
_My dog won’t bite if you sit real still_  
_I got the antichrist in the kitchen yelling at me again_  
_Yeah, I can hear that_  
_Been saved again by the garbage truck_  
_I got something to say, you know, but nothing comes,_  
_Yes, I know what you think of me, you never shut up,_  
_Yeah, I can hear that_  
_But what if I’m a mermaid, in these jeans of his with her name still on it_  
_Hey, but I don’t care ‘cause sometimes, I said sometimes I hear my voice._  
_And it’s been here silent all these years._

“Roswitha!”

Roswitha looked up from the map of Torquay, England where she was marking out a plan on how to return the Philosopher’s Stone to Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel. She lifted the needle from her turntable and called out, “Yes, Pappa!”

“Come down here please!”

Flicking the turntable’s off switch and stuffing her map under several books, Roswitha slipped out of her room and leaning over the bannister.

Pappa laughed at her, entirely good natured. “Get down here, you, before you fall over to your death.”

Roswitha began to descend the stairs. “It wouldn’t be my death,” she insisted. “Maybe a broken leg, but not my death.”

Pappa laughed again. “Depends on what you hit on the way down.”

“You’re up early for a Saturday,” Roswitha remarked, as she made it to the third landing and sat down on the edge of the bannister to slide down to the second. She had never before had the idea to slide down the bannister until she had come home at the end of term and caught him doing it one afternoon. He had looked rather sheepish about the whole thing, especially since Roswitha had never caught him in the act before, but insisted on teaching her, for “safety.”

“Yes,” said Pappa, as he caught her. “I received word from a rather eager client of mine. He won’t have anybody else on the case but me. It’s going to be a big project, though and might drain too much of my magic for me to get back tonight, even with the floo. I might not be back until tomorrow or later.”

“Is it very dangerous?” Roswitha asked, cocking her head to one side. “Whatever it is this client wants you to do?”

“Curse breaking is always a little dangerous,” said Pappa. He pressed a kiss to her hair. “But I promise I will be careful. In anycase, since your father’s away at that potions convention or seminar or whatever it was, I want you to go around to the Grangers and see about staying the night.”

Roswitha huffed. “I’m afraid you’ll see the Grangers before I will; they’re on holiday in Marseilles.”

Pappa considered this for a moment. “The Malfoys then -- you can floo there before I floo to France.” Then he laughed at her. “Why the long face, my darling?”

“I just spent a week at the Malfoys,” said Roswitha, pouting at him.

“And didn’t you have a good time?” Pappa asked, his brow furrowing. “Here come into the study, I need to collect some things while we talk. I thought you and Draco were good friends still.”

“We are,” said Roswitha, nodding, as they entered into the study and Pappa began packing a briefcase with books and charts. “But Draco can never just let me have a moment to myself.” She frowned. “I know that must sound selfish, because he must be so lonely, but… well…”

Pappa seated himself on the edge of a chair and took her by her hands. “It is not selfish to want a moment to yourself, even if someone else is lonely. All the same, I can’t leave you here by yourself -- and don’t mention the elves.”

Roswitha clicked her mouth shut as she was about to say she wouldn’t be alone. She thought about others for the moment, friends who lived in London. Dean, Fay and Sophie all lived in the city and they had met up several times for movies and study sessions, or they had come swimming at the house. But all of them probably wouldn’t be able to take on an unexpected guest on such short notice. “What about the Weasleys?” she asked. “Ron’s been begging me for a visit, and if it’s only for a night or two, it shouldn’t put them out?”

Pappa squinted at her for a moment. “The Weasleys?” he asked.

Roswitha nodded emphatically, a plan forming in her head. “I don’t remember their floo address, but I can always owl Ron and ask. And if they can’t host on such short notice, I’ll go to Malfoy Manor.”

Pappa squinted at her. “You really think they wouldn’t mind?”

“Honestly, I don’t,” said Roswitha. She did want to see Ron, and the other Weasleys, but the stone in her pocket felt like it was gaining weight in the pocket of her dressing gown, almost as if it would drag her down any second.

“Hmph,” said Pappa. He leaned down and kissed her foredhead. “Alright, go and back for a few days, and then we’ll do one better. Arthur Weasley works for the ministry and should be to work by now. We’ll pop over and ask if it’ll be alright and get that floo address at the same time.”

Rosiwtha nodded emphatically again. “Be down in a moment!” she said. She grinned as she fairly bounced back up the stairs. Her room became a flurry of books and clothes, as she packed three changes of clothes, a swimming suit, two of her text books and summer essays, and her shrunken broom and packed them into her satchel. Roswitha also pulled her diary from her desk drawer, which contain the letter from Perenelle and Nicolas Flamel — more importantly, it contained their return address.

She cleaned up her desk, tucking the map of Torquay in one of her desk drawers, especially as she would no longer need to perform an anti-heist. At least, Roswitha didn’t think she would need to. A pity, really. Roswitha had imagined a daring chase scene through the unfamiliar city, and perhaps the chance to use a wig. Ah well — strangely, Roswitha thought there would be another time for all of that.

Roswitha through her dressing gown on the bed, then turned back to it before she had taken two more steps toward her closet. From the pocket, she pulled free Nicolas Flamel’s Philosopher’s Stone, and tucked that in a special pocket of her satchel. Then, she dressed in a comfortable dress, wool socks, her walking boot, and a nice jacket she had found at a consignment store this summer when shopping with Fay, Sophie, and Hermione. As a final touch, she pulled on her watch necklace, amilliary ring, and platted her long hair in a single braid. Roswitha had begun doing smaller plaits interwoven in her hair, but today she was on a bit of a crunch.

She took her satchel and a small box from her bottom desk drawer and headed back downstairs.

Pappa stood in the foyer muttering about everything he would need for his stay over in France, and brightened when he saw her.

Roswitha held up the gift to him. “Happy Birthday, Pappa.”

“Oh, my darling heart.” He grew a great smile across the bredth of his face. “Happy Birthday to you too.” Pappa pulled a box from his pocket. “Save that for when you are at the Weasleys and do _not_ tell your Father I gave you your gift without him here.”

“Yes, Pappa,” said Roswitha nodding. She put her gift in her satchel, then reached out to take his hand.

As always when they apparated together, Pappa instructed her to take a deep breath. When Roswitha did, it felt like she was being pulled through a tight tube, and when she let the breath out, she had arrived at their destination. This time, they had come to the Ministry of Magic, landing in a great atrium which let in the dawning light above.

They had to go to a station and have their wands examined before they were let in to the ministry proper, while they did, Roswitha got a good look around at the tall atrium which seemed to stretch on forever. “How many offices are there in the ministry?” she asked Pappa.

“Don’t know for sure,” he said with a little shrug. “Maybe Mr. Weasley will know.”

They took a lift which lead them down, surprisingly, not up, and got out going toward a sign that said, “Misuse of Muggle Artifacts,” and arrived at the same time Mr. Weasley did. He was tall, like all the Weasleys, broad shouldered like Ron, and had something of Percy in his face.

“Can I help?” he asked.

“Apologies, Regulus Black,” said Pappa reaching out to shake Mr. Weasley’s hand. “And this is my daughter Roswitha.”

“Ah!” Mr. Weasley’s face lit up with recognition and he shook Pappa’ hand eagerly. “Ron’s friend. Well, how d’you do?”

“Very well, thank you,” said Roswitha.

“Well, come in, come in,” said Mr. Weasley entering into the office. “I hope no one’s been misusing muggle artifacts.”

“Oh, not at all,” said Pappa. He began to explain the situation, and Roswitha looked around the office. There was a carpet in the corner, rolled up but slightly hovering. Stacked to one side was an unpluged toaster that mounted a large pile of kitchen appliances. On the shelf above Mr. Weasley’s desk was a collection of rubber ducks, ranging in size.

“Roswitha.” Roswitha looked up and met Pappa’s eye. “Are you listening, darling heart?”

Roswitha shook her head.

The two older men chuckled.

“At least you are forthright about it,” said Mr. Weasley with a kind smile. “I was just saying to your father that of course you would be welcome to stay with us for a few days. Though, it is odd that Ron never mentioned our floo address.”

“Oh.” Roswitha smiled. “Maybe he just thought I would know? We’ve talked about me visiting since before term ended.”

Mr. Weasley chuckled again. “Ah, that lad. Can see twenty moves ahead in chess, but often can’t see beyond his nose. I certainly hope he’ll grow out of it. Well, I’ve a floo in here -- let me just call Mrs. Weasley, and we’ll see about sending you through.”

Mr. Weasely moved over the fireplace, throwing a handful of green powder onto the flames.

Pappa, meanwhile, came and took Roswitha into a hug. Roswitha squeezed him extra tight. Pappa gave an over exagerated, “Oof,” before he pulled back and grinned at her. Cupping his face in his hands, Pappa said, “I’ll see you soon, alright? And be good for the Weasleys.”

“I will,” said Roswitha. She didn’t know why, but she wanted another hug then. Pappa hugged her back just as tight. “Stay safe in France, Pappa.”

“I will, darling heart.”

“Right then!” Mr. Weasley looked over to them. “We’re ready for you!’

Pappa pulled back and kissed her cheek. “I love you, Roswitha.”

Easily, Roswitha replied, “I love you too, Pappa.”

Off you go,” he said, repeating. “I’ll see you soon.”

“G’bye, Pappa.” Roswitha walked over to Mr. Weasley at the fireplace, turning back to wave a little, before she turned her attention toward him.

“Now, then, our address is very simple,” said Mr. Weasley. He handed her a bit of the green powder. “Step in,” Roswitha did so, checking the fire had gone out. “And as clear as you can, say, ‘The Burrow’.”

Roswitha nodded. “The Burrow!” She tossed the powder down.

The next thing Roswitha knew, Mr. Weasley and Pappa were no longer visible, and instead, she was looking up at a wooden ceiling she had never seen before. A kind, round face surrounded by red hair appeared.

“Took a tumble out of the floo, did you?” asked the woman, smiling and laughing just a little. She offered a hand out to Roswitha. “Happens to everyone -- up you get now, dearie.”

“Thank you,” said Roswitha taking her hand. Though, honestly, if Roswitha were alone, taking a tumble out of the floo happened _every _time. When she stood she tried to dust herself off, though Roswitha realized that was quickly a futile pursuit. She couldn’t help but laugh. “Not really the cleanest way to travel, is it?”

Mrs. Weasley laughed too. “No, not really, here, we are though, _scorgify!” _Mrs. Weasley tapped her wand against Roswitha, and then, suddenly, the soot had disappeared.

Roswitha looked over her shoulder and down her front, pleased to find that she had no more grime on her anywhere. “That’s fantastic!” she said, grinning ear to ear. “I’ll have to remember that one. Oh, sorry, my name’s Roswitha.” Roswitha held out her hand again.

Mrs. Weasley shook it with a smile. “Pleased to meet you, my dear. Ron talks about you and your friends all the time. Have you eaten yet? I’ve just got breakfast on.”

Roswitha shook her head. “Not yet. Would you like a hand?”

Something in Mrs. Weasley’s face shifted a little, and she looked Roswitha up and down, just once. When she met Roswitha’s eyes once more, somehow Mrs. Weasley seemed even warmer than she had before. “That’s very kind dear. The breakfast is almost done, though perhaps you’d like to go and wake the boys for me while I finish up?”

Roswitha smiled as warmly as she felt. “I can do that.”

The Burrow consisted of a comfy living room off of a large kitchen with an equally large dining table, with a set of stairs tucked into the corner. Roswitha went up the first flight and found herself on a small landing with two rooms -- the first was already open and empty, but the second remained closed. Roswitha entered and found herself face to face with another young girl.

They both blinked at each other for a moment, and the young girl quickly snapped the book on her lap shut -- her diary from the look of it. “Who’re you?” she asked.

Roswitha flushed -- any of the Weasley boys she would have felt no qualms about invading their space. “Er, sorry, I’m Roswitha -- Ron’s friend. Your mum asked me to get everyone up for breakfast. You’re Ginny, right?”

“Oh,” said Ginny. “Yeah, I am.”

There was a long pause between them.

Roswitha broke it, saying, “Want to help me jump on the boys?”

Slowly, Ginny grinned. “C’mon.” Ginny jumped from bed and raced past, only pausing to take Roswitha by the hand.

The twins’ and Percy’s rooms were on the next floor. Percy was already awake, and so could not be jumped on, but the twins were fast asleep. Without pause, she and Ginny leapt onto their beds. Both twins let out an “ooph!” before bolting up. They were dazed long enough that Roswitha managed to jump off of George’s bed, even as he reached out to grab her. Ginny was not so lucky, Fred ensnaring her and tickling her until Ginny shrieked.

Roswitha ran from the room, George hot on her heels, running up the stairs until she came to Ron’s room. Ron was standing in the doorway, hair mussed, and eyes bleary, awoken by the racket.

“Save me!” Roswitha cried out, giggling as she did.

Ron stepped to the side, only saying, “Save yourself.”

Roswitha ran into the room, George hot on her heels, cornered. George tackled her to the bed, but Roswitha antcipated this, locking their legs together and flipping them over so he was on the bottom and she was on top. Before either Weasley boys could blink, Roswitha off of the bed and on her own feet ready to go for the door again.

Before George could race after her, Mrs. Weasley called up, “Breakfast!”

Breakfast was enough to break up any playfight, and Roswitha left the boys to get dressed. She reached the second floor landing at the same time as Percy was coming out of his room already dressed. “D’you always bring trouble wherever you go?”

Roswitha only grinned, pulling him in for a hug. “I missed you, too, Percy.”

Percy rolled his eyes and hugged her back.

Since they were the first ones down, Percy grabbed a stack of plates and handed a pile of silverware to Roswitha. They began to set the table and finished just as the others began to come down. Ron embraced her with little fuss. “I didn’t think you’d come down to see us,” he said.

“Pappa had to go to France for a cursebreaking client,” said Roswitha. “Your mum and dad said I could come and stay with you for a day or two while he was gone.”

George fluttered his eyebrows. “Oh _Pappa _had to go to _France_, did he?”

Roswitha flushed. “What does that mean?”

“Ignore him, Roswitha,” said Percy.

“You couldn’t call him dad?” George asked, ignoring Percy.

“Well…” Roswitha wrinkled her nose. “He’s just not a ‘dad’ sort of person. He’s…” There was too much there that she couldn’t explain. “He’s just my pappa that’s all.”

Fred, on her other side, swatted her backside. “You’re just too posh is all.”

“Alfred Gideon Weasley!” said Mrs. Weasley.

Everyone jumped at the full name invocation and turned to Mrs. Weasley. Mrs. Weasley was red in the face as she said, “You do not touch a young lady like that! Apologize!”

Fred flushed red as well. “But… I do that to Ginny all the time, and it’s not wrong.”

Mrs. Weasley sputtered a little, and Percy only sighed. “Fred, what Mum means to say to you is that even though we think of Ros like a little sister, she’s still not officially a member of the family. To people who do not know us well, like Roswitha’s parents for instance, touching her behind might not reflect well on you. Furthermore, it really doesn’t communicate the right image on who is allowed to touch her, to Ros or anyone else if you do that to, because she’s twelve and you’re fourteen. You didn’t do anything wrong, but you shouldn’t do it again.”

The color in her face turning a little bit more normal, Mrs. Weasley said, “Thank you, Percy, that’s exactly what I meant. I… it surprised me you would be so familiar with a younger girl, that’s all, Fred.”

“I wouldn’t hurt anybody though,” said Fred, his voice at almost a mumble.

“Oh.” Mrs. Weasley came and hugged him tight, and Fred hugged back. “Oh, I know that. But you must show others that too. They might not know you as well, Freddie, and they might not think well of you for doing something like that. Alright?”

“Alright, Mum,” said Fred. As he pulled away from his mother, he turned to Roswitha and said, “Sorry Ros.”

“That’s okay, Fred,” said Roswitha, patting him on the shoulder. “No harm done to me, I promise.”

“Now, let’s all sit down and have a spot of breakfast,” said Mrs. Weasley, laying out dishes from the stove. “I’m sure we’ll all feel better when we do.”

For the first few minutes of breakfast, they filled their plates and ate in silence, and Roswitha felt a little miserable -- she certainly hadn’t meant to get anyone in trouble when she first arrived at the Weasley home. Then Ron nudged her and said, “Hey, that reminds me. Happy Birthday, Ros.”

Both twins perked up at the mention of her birthday. “You know what this means?” George asked, before he started singing.

All the Weasleys joined it, singing loudly and off key, grins returning to faces, and Roswitha found herself smiling as well, the ease brough back into the room.

When they had finished, Ron asked, “Did you bring your broom? We play in the orchard since there’s plenty of cover. We could even invite others round for a more proper game.”

“Are there other witches and wizards who live nearby?” Roswitha asked, looking around the table.

“The Diggorys live on the other side of the village,” said Percy, with a shrug. He passed her a jar of jam for her scone. “The Lovegoods live about a mile’s walk over the hill. Supposedly Newt Scamander and family live somewhere in Devon, but it’s a large county so who knows?”

“You ought to invite Luna and Cedric out with you at least,” said Mrs. Weasley with a nod. “Cedric’s a good lad, and poor Luna doesn’t come round much anymore.”

Ginny got a funny look on her face. “I don’t blame her,” said Ginny in a small voice after a moment. “But it might be nice to see Luna again.”

Fred and George were making a face, though. “It’s not that Cedric isn’t a good lad,” said George.

“He is,” said Fred. “Absolutely capital. But Mum… he’s just sooo…”

Percy gained a sly look. “Do you two have a crush on Cedric Diggory?”

Fred and George turned bright red. “No!” they both protested at once.

“You should have a crush on him,” said George.

“Yeah, he’s a square just like you Percy,” said Fred, crossing his arms.

Percy shrugged. “He’s certainly good looking, but I think what you were going for earlier is that he’s a little shy and so seems a little boring.”

“Besides, Oliver wouldn’t like it very much if you started dating someone else,” said Roswitha, biting into her scone.

Fred and George now looked horrified, and it was Percy’s turn to go bright red, all the way to his ears. “You’re dating Oliver Wood?” the twins asked in unison.

Ginny, however, just looked a little confused. “I thought you had a girlfriend named Penny?”

Percy groaned and burried his head in his hands.

Ron, much more interested in his breakfast than anything else, ignored Percy’s discomfort and the twins’ looks that resembled something like awe and something like horror. “Anyway, I also thought we could walk over to the village one of the days you’re here. They have a book shop so maybe they’ll have that Dracula book Hermione’s been going on about.”

“What a wonderful idea, Ron,” said Mrs. Weasley, her eyes firmly on Percy. “It’ll be good for all of you to get out of the house for a bit after chores are done. I’ll firecall the Diggorys and the Lovegoods after breakfast.”

The Weasleys began to eat faster after that, the idea of escaping the house for the day, and perhaps their mother’s questions about their love lives, seemed better and better with each passing minute. Mrs. Weasley handed out the chores when breakfast came to an end -- Fred and George on dishes, Percy on sweeping out the den/kitchen area, and Ginny would gather the hampers for laundry. Ron was given the chore of degnoming the vegetable garden.

“Should I help with the gnomes or the laundry?” Roswitha asked.

Mrs. Weasley chuckled. “Oh, but you’re a guest, dear girl!”

“The sooner everyone finishes, though, the sooner we get to leave,” said Roswitha.

“Laundry first, I think,” said Ron, with a nod. “Then you can both help me with the gnomes if there are any left.”

Mrs. Weasley huffed a little at the thought of putting a guest to work, but gave in when Roswitha followed Ginny upstairs to collect the laundry.

“Don’t bother if stuff is laying about,” said Ginny, firmly. “The boys know to put stuff in their hampers, and if something doesn’t get washed it’s their fault.”

“I’ll start on top then?” Roswitha asked, pointing up to Ron’s room at the top of the stairs.

“Meet you in the middle,” Ginny agreed.

Between the two of them it took maybe fifteen minutes to collect all the laundry hampers in the house and haul them outside to where Mrs. Weasley, having called over to the Diggory and Lovegood houses, was prepairing three soapy basins of water while a pale haired girl watched.

“Luna!” Ginny cried as she saw her, dropping the hamper in her hands and racing to hug the other girl.

Luna hugged Ginny back, a dreamy look on her face. “Hullo, Ginny,” she said. “Do you do all your laundry together or sort the colors?”

“Darks in one,” said Ginny. “Whites in one, colorful clothes in the last.”

Ginny retrieved the hamper and the four of them began to sort out the clothes. “I’m Roswitha, by the way,” she said to Luna. “I’m friends with Ron.”

“I’m Luna,” said Luna, wih a smile. “I’m friends with Ginny. We used to play dolls together or pretend.”

When they had the clothes all sorted, Mrs. Weasley shooed them away to where Ron was chucking gnomes out of the garden. There were only a few left, so between the four of them they finished in no time, just as the older boys left the house with a new boy in tow.

“Ros, this is Cedric,” said Percy. “Cedric, this is Roswitha Black.”

Cedric was nearly as tall as the twins, had brown hair, ruddy cheeks, and a handsomeness Roswitha could not explain. He shook Roswitha’s hand firmly, chiming, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too,” said Roswitha, feeling a little warm ‘round the middle.

Chores complete, walking shoes on and pocket money on hand, the large group began the walk to the town, Mrs. Weasley waving them off.

“D’you want to walk with us, Ros?” Ginny asked, holding Luna’s hand.

“In just a moment,” said Roswitha, smiling at her. “I need to talk to Ron for a second about something on our homework.”

Ginny nodded and then turned to ask Luna something about a newspaper.

Roswitha took Ron by hand and slowly moved to the back of the group, hanging just out of earshot.

“What’s the matter?” Ron asked, his brow furrowed. “We never talk about homework.”

“You remember how I said I wasn’t going to tell anyone what I did with the you-know-what so no one would have know and get in trouble?” Roswitha asked.

“Yeah?”

“Well, I’m still not going to,” said Roswitha, pursing her lips. “But listen, if someone, say, sent Muggle mail from your county, no one would suspect your family of having anything to do with it, would they?”

Ron shook his head. “I don’t think so. Everyone knows Dad likes muggles, but it’s a different thing to send mail that way.” Ron paused, biting his lip for a moment. “D’you _have _the you-know-what on you right now?” His voice came out a litle squeaky when he spoke.

Roswitha hummed slightly. “Let’s not say one way or the other.”

“Being your friend is mental sometimes,” said Ron, rolling his eyes. “Now, Ginny’s dying to talk to you about dolls or whatever.”

Ginny, as it happened, wanted to talk about Quidditch, which gradually spread to everyone in the group for the further mile into town.

As they came a little closer, Cedric made a little noise. “I’ve just had a thought. I don’t have any Muggle money.”

Rowitha only shrugged. “I’ll change you over. I carry muggle money and wizarding money since nearly everything is muggle in London.”

“What were the conversions again?” Ron asked, as he pulled out some coins from his pocket.

“A sickle’s about twenty pence or five sickles is a pound,” said Roswitha. She was upping the value of a sickle a little, but honestly, why couldn’t monetary conversions be based off tens and one hundreds in the wizarding world? Roswitha suspected the goblins made it really difficult on purpose so no one thought to cheat them or else whoever came up with it was just really bad at math. It was easier to say that five sickles was a pound since it was the most commonly used bit of currency by wizards.

Before they got into town, they paused and Roswitha changed around everyone’s money. Everyone had a little pocket money here and there, really not much more than £10 each. Roswitha made a note of it so she didn’t spend more than that on any given thing.

When they got into town, it seemed they were early enough that the market was still open. They got more than a few looks for being teenagers (or nearly in some cases) roaming through the stalls. Those looks stopped when Roswitha bought everyone an orange since the walk over had made them all hungry again from breakfast.

It became clear, as they began to break free of the market, that it would be a task to keep them all together. Percy sighed and said, “Alright, everyone meet back here in an hour. Ginny, Luna, I’m afraid the two of you are stuck with me. Fred, George, don’t destroy anything.”

Fred and George saluted before heading off to a nearby consignment store. There was a small toy shop nearby that Ginny and Luna looked keen on, and if Roswitha slipped Percy an extra tenner, that was her business.

“Could I come with you both?” Cedric asked, shifting from one foot to the next.

Roswitha and Ron looked at each other. “Sure,” she said at last. “I have to stop by the post office though. I remembered this morning I need to send something if I want it to arrive on time.”

“Suits me,” said Cedric with a little shrug and a big grin.

Roswitha purchased a little box they had inside the post office and addressed it to the Flamel family home. The post mistress eyed them the entire time they were inside the store, but duitifully weighed and measured the package. “And what,” she asked, “precisely, are you sending, miss?”

“A lump of coal,” said Roswitha, putting on her most winning smile. “As a favor to an aunt. She said if my cousin wasn’t good he’d get coal for his birthday as well as Christmas. I’ve sent a real present before now, of course, but I thought it would be funny if I sent the coal too.”

The post mistress’ face lightened as she cackled. “Oh my, I never! I might have to do that with me own little neices and nephews.” Then she rang them up and shoo’d them out of the post office without a care.

Cedric licked his lips as they walked up the street to the book shop. “Was that true?” he asked. “About the coal.”

“Sort of,” said Roswitha, shrugging.

“Are you in any sort of trouble?” Cedric asked, furrowing his eyebrows (which really were perfectly shaped. Roswitha wondered if he plucked them into place at all).

Roswitha shook her head. “Not anymore. But for reasons, I had to send something slightly magical through the muggle post. It won’t hurt anything, I promise.”

Cedric nodded, saying, “Everyone likes you, you know, Roswitha. All the first years I mean. Susan said you have a Hufflepuff’s sense of fair play.”

“Thanks, Cedric,” said Roswitha, a smile coming to her lips.

“If you do need help, though, there’s no shame in asking,” he added. “And I’m glad to help.”

Ron bumped her hip. “He’s glad to help, Ros.”

Cedric flushed. “Oh, don’t you start too. I mean it, though; if I can help, I will.”

Roswitha pushed Ron away by his face. “Thank you, Cedric. It’s very kind of you.”

By then they had reached the bookstore, and so the matter dropped. Cedric began to peruse the shelves, while Roswitha and Ron went to the counter and asked where the copies of _Dracula_ could be found.

The store clerk, blinked owlishly at them and sighed, “Going to see the movie, are you?”

They nodded in tandem.

“Well, I s’ppose it’s best if you read the book first.” She still sighed as she took them over to a display that had Penguin Classics stacking facing up. “Those shelves there,” said the shopkeep, pointing, “have longer versions with annotations if you want them.”

“We’ll try these, first,” said Roswitha. “Thanks.”

The books were simply bound and covered, so they didn’t cost much. In addition to Dracula, Roswitha grabbed an a copy of _Frankenstein_, which Hermione had mentioned several times that Roswitha should read, and then a compilation of an author called Charlotte Gilman Perks, who simply looked interesting. Ron, meanwhile, opened up a copy of _A Study in Scarlet_, and Roswitha had to pry him from his spot so they might pay and go. Cedric, who had wandered over, also took a book, though it was a copy of _Le Morte de Arthur_.

“What’s _Frankenstein _about then?” Ron asked as they left the store, as Roswitha slipped all the books into her satchel, careful that no one else would notice how much it could hold.

“I don’t know the whole story,” said Roswitha, steering them toward the consignment shop. “But a man sort of brings someone to life.”

“It’s about a necromancer?” Cedric asked.

“Can he be a necromancer if there’s no magic involved?” Roswitha asked, raising an eyebrow. “Mr. Frankenstein does not bring his creation to life with magic but with _science_.”

They debated the topic until they came to the consignment shop, where they found not only Fred and George, but Percy, Ginny, Luna, and another boy they did not know, lingering close by who became drawn in by the debate.

“Oh for goodness sakes,” said the new boy, rolling his deep brown eyes. “Of course, Frankenstein’s a necromancer. The body parts he used were from _dead_ people.”

“But, he created a totally new being,” said Roswitha, only half heartedly arguing anymore, pulling on a pair of sunglasses and turning toward the boy. “And again, science, not magic.”

The new boy rolled his eyes again. “Cripes.”

A woman a approached the new boy -- they shared the same copper colored curls, though hers were streaked with white. She ran her hand affectionately through the boy’s hair, though, combing it with her fingers.

“Mum…” he said, flushing a little.

She paid his embarassment no mind. “Who are your friends, darling?”

He opened his mouth and then clicked it shut. “Erm, I hadn’t asked.”

Ron, meanwhile, looked up at the woman with some awe, and Luna had edged forward looking enchanted as well. “You’re Newton Scamander,” said Luna, her voice soft and willowy.

Newton Scamander smiled softly, ducking her head. “Oh, yes, I am. And your names please?”

They went around and gave their names, ending with the new boy who was called Rolf. “Rolf Graves,” he specified.

“Scamander-Graves.” A man appeared from behind a shelf to join them, flicking Rolf in the ear. “We’ve talked about this Rolf -- do not roll your eyes at me.”

“And this is my dad, Percival Graves,” said Rolf, rolling his eyes anyway.

Luna, feeling a bit emboldened by the introductions, came forward with a small book she had had in her pocket. “Would you sign my book of life, please, Dr. Scamander?”

Scamander, who was apparently a doctor of some sort, beamed and gladly accepted the little book. Luna had no pen though, so Roswitha pulled one free of her satchel and passed it over.

“Are you very interested in zoology, Luna?” Dr. Scamander asked as she crouched down and wrote a little note in Luna’s little book.

Luna nodded. “Oh, yes. My father writes about magical creatures in his magazine, and I want to travel the world to study them.”

Dr. Scamander nodded and passed Luna her book back. “It’s a worthy aspiration. There will be always more to learn about the world, even when it feels a little small.” With a final smile, she turned and handed her pen back to Roswitha. “And that was very kind of you, Miss Black.”

Roswitha flushed at the formal address. “Roswitha is just fine, Dr. Scamander. You’re not my professor or anything.”

Dr. Scamander smiled kindly at her. “Well, thank you, Roswitha. I imagine it is getting rather close to lunch time, however, so we must be getting on our way. Perhaps you all might scurry home for a bit as well?”

Her suggestion seemed so kind, and their bellies seemed to rumble all together that they all agreed at once to set out back to Ottery St. Catchpole (much to the relief of the clerk at the front of the shop, who’s whole body relaxed when they came to ring up their purchases). Mr. Graves and Dr. Scamander were in conference with one another as the clerk rung them up, eventually drawing Rolf into their discussion before Mr. Graves appraoched them and asked if they might walk with them back to Ottery St. Catchpole.

Percy squinted at this suggestion. “But, Mr. Graves, you don’t live in Ottery St. Catchpole.”

Mr. Graves chuckled. “Yes, I know. But I used to be an auror and Newt’s been around the block a time or two. We worry about things like this.”

“Because they’re old,” Rolf supplied.

“Because we’re old,” Mr. Graves agreed, ruffling his son’s hair.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt anything,” said Percy with a shrug. “What will you being an auror, and Dr. Scamander being a famous author.”

Which is how they found themselves walking back to the Burrow trailed by two adults. Rolf fit right into their group, and by all accounts, Dr. Scamander and Mr. Graves seemed to be waking along, holding hands, and talking as a normal couple would. But Roswitha felt strangely watched by the two of them. If she were feeling a little melancholy, she thought Dr. Scamander and Mr. Graves might have been what her parents were like, if she had had them growing up. For they were two people in love with one another, with a deep sense of caring toward others, especially children.

George nudged her. “You’re staring,” he said.

Roswitha said nothing, but brought her eyes back toward front.

Somehow, walking back to the Burrow took less time than walking toward the village -- or perhaps it seemed that way as their bellies urged them home.

Even so, as they walked, Roswitha couldn’t help but look back to Dr. Scamander and Mr. Graves. They were so obviously in love, and it struck a strange chord with her that seeing obviously in love couples, like her parents, the Tonkses or the Malfoys, never had before. Odd — very odd indeed — but it made Roswitha very concious of the fact that she was growing up. Soon, she might even fall in love for the first time. Within a few years she would be graduating form Hogwarts, even though she had only started last year. Within a few years, she would be a grown up and making her own way in the work.

Roswitha suddenly felt dizzy and stopped in place.

“Are you alright, my dear?”

Roswitha looked up and found that the group had moved on, Mr. Graves trailing behind them. Dr. Scamander stood in front of her.

“I…” Roswitha found she did not have an answer, even for a question so simple.

Dr. Scamander nodded at this loss, though, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Would you like to talk about it while we catch up with the others?”

Dr. Scamander offered out her hand. Roswitha paused for a moment and then took it.

“You know,” said Dr. Scamander as they began to walk. “Though whatever you are feeling right now is totally unique, I can assure you it is perfectly normal.”

To this sentiment, Roswitha frowned. “How can something be normal and unique at once?”

“Well, as you begin adolescence your body begins to change rapidly -- your bones lengthen, your skin stretches, your muscles expand. But your brain also begins a rapid growth as well, changing and solidifying all at once. So when I say it is normal, I mean everyone, or nearly everyone, goes through those growing pains, physically and mentally.” Dr. Scamander looked toward her -- toward her, not down at her, which would have been easy as Dr. Scamander was quite tall and Roswitha was barely five foot three at this point. “However, I’ve always believed circumstances to be unique, so though everyone feels pain and melancholy, they feel it for different reasons. You don’t know me, and therefore you do not trust me, which is very sensible. But if you need to talk to someone, I hope that you can find a body you trust to do so, which would also be rather sensible.”

“How do you know so?” Roswitha asked, feeling disagreeable now that it seemed Dr. Scamander had seen right through her.

Dr. Scamander laughed, not unkindly, but like she thought that was genuinely funny. “Aside from once being a teenage girl myself? I’ve raised several individuals over the course of the last ninety-six years and so have had a wide range to study.”

“Ninety-six?” Roswitha stopped in her tracks, this time gob smacked. If she had had to guess, she would have said that Dr. Scamander was in her forties, though greying a little much for her age. “You cannot be ninety-six -- or if you are, I should hope I am as able at your age!”

Dr. Scamander laughed again, and this time ducked her head as she resumed walking. “Yes well, witches and wizards can have longer lifespans than non-magical folk due to our relationship with magic. I certainly… led an adventurous youth which meant I came in contact with things which slowed my aging a little. But being with Percival these past thirty years has put me back on the right track.”

“How so?” Roswitha asked. Then she flushed, realizing the question was quite private, and added, “if I may ask.”

“Dear girl, haven’t you heard?” Dr. Scamander looked up to her husband (or partner, or maybe just lover) with a misty look in her eye. “True love is the greatest magic of all.”

“That’s not just in fairy stories?” Roswitha asked.

“No.” Dr. Scamander’s voice grew soft. “But I will tell you, the fairy stories end before the work of love can begin. And love takes work, my gel.”

“And patience,” said Mr. Graves over his shoulder, as they had grown close enough that he could hear them. “And kindness. And acceptance. Particularly of the fact that one of the creatures your wife is rehabilitating has once again shit in your shoes.” Then he turned to the others, saying, “Don’t tell your parents I said the word ‘shit’.”

Rolf immediately looked over his shoulder and said, “Mum, dad’s talking about shit.”

“Our mum will probably wash both your mouths out with soap if you use that word again,” Fred informed them lightly.

“No,” said Dr. Scamander, sounding very final on the subject. “No, she will not.”

Here the twins looked at her in awe, for they had likely never seen someone so ready to defy their mother before.

“Oh look,” said Ron, coughly loudly, “we’re home. I’ll race you there.”

The Burrow was indeed in sight, and possibly to avoid talking about love or about something that would get his mouth washed out with soap, Ron took off running. Ginny took off after him, shrieking about unfair starts, pulling Luna behind her, and the other boys were not far behind.

“Off you get,” said Dr. Scamander, nudging Roswitha along.

Permission granted to run away, Roswitha ran, her legs pumping hard. She quickly caught up to everyone else, so she put a little more strength into her legs.

“No fair!” Ron cried as she caught up to him.

“Don’t knock into the clean laundry!” Mrs. Weasley cried as she saw them coming in.

Roswitha turned at just the right moment, ran around the laundry lines, and then ran around the Burrow as she needed a little more space to slow down.

Percy, glasses drooping down his nose, panting wildly glared at her without any heat. “Show off,” he said.

Roswitha only shrugged.

Mrs. Weasley invited the Scamander-Graves to stay for lunch, though she might be a moment since she had expected the children would take a little longer in the village.

“Oh, let me help you,” Mr. Graves volunteered.

Mrs. Weasley flushed. “Well, that would be right kind of you.”

“Not at all,” said Mr. Graves.

“Perhaps, in the mean time, children,” said Dr. Scamander. “We might all fold the laundry?”

Fred and George looked a little pained at the thought, but only shrugged. Percy, too, appeared a bit miffed, but as his troublemaker brothers had not protested, perhaps he felt he could not either. So, everyone washed their hands at the outdoor pump, and then began to fold clothes and linen, placing them into clean baskets. When they had finished, Dr. Scamander pulled out an enourmous patch work blanket from her bag so that they might have a picnic lunch.

Mrs. Weasley brought out a ploughman’s lunch of good cheese, fresh bread, fruits, veg, a side of smoked fish, and pumpkin juice to drink. Everyone tucked in heartily and began side pockets of conversation -- Mr. Graves and Mrs. Weasley discussed their gardens. Luna and Dr. Scamander both began to disucss magical creatures at length, drawing in the twins to their conversation. Cedric, meanwhile, engaged Rolf about how he had never seen him at Hogwarts. When Rolf admitted he went to Ilvermorney, it sparked a huge discussion that drew in Ginny and Percy as well.

Roswitha, meanwhile, just leaned back against one of the trees in the Weasley family orchard, Ron next to her, feeling quite content for the moment. How odd, she thought, to feel so melancholy one moment and then so content the next?

Ron nudged her. “Stop thinking so hard. I can hear you from over here.” Then he pressed into her, resting his head on her shoulder.

Roswitha resisted a laugh, and instead snuggled into Ron as well, letting herself feel good for the moment.

The Scamander-Graves family left after lunch via side-along apparation (which they must have done quite often, for Rolf seemed unbothered by it). Luna and Cedric both flooed home, and Mrs. Weasley left them to their own devices as chores were finished for the day. If they had not been so worn out from the walk, someone might have suggested Quidditch. As it was, everyone split off to do as they pleased. Ron and Roswitha went to his room, leaving the door open at Mrs. Weasley’s insistance, where they talked for a bit, played a round or two of chess and then began to read their new books. Roswitha was just beginning to feel awful for the woman with the yellow wallpaper when Mrs. Weasley called them down for supper.

Mr. Weasley had arrived home from the Ministry and was laying out the table at Mrs. Weasley’s direction. “Hullo, kids,” he said genially. “Set out the plates, would you please?”

Ron and Roswitha split the job, and Fred and George, who had come down behind them laid out the silverware.

Mr. Weasley asked about their day in the village, listening to everyone in turn about what a good time it had been. When Ron mentioned the books they had bought because of the film coming out, Mr. Weasley brightened. “Do you think your friends will want to see this one over break as well?” Mr. Weasley asked.

“Well, I think the girls all do and they outnumber us,” said Ron, with a nod. “But Dr. Granger says that they often change things from the book to the film so she’s insisting Hermione read the book first.”

“At least she’s said so once a week since the summer has started,” Roswitha interjected with a grin.

Ron grinned back. “In any case, we’re going to read it too. Roswitha and I both got copies of it when we were in the village.”

“Well, why don’t we have a read along after supper?” Mr. Weasley suggested.

“Is this book any good?” George asked.

“Haven’t read it yet,” said Ron with a shrug. “But Dr. Compton said it was one of his favorites as a kid, and he’s got good taste.”

Mrs. Weasley frowned. “Which is Dr. Compton again?”

“Dr. Granger’s husband,” said Ron easily, “Hermione’s dad.”

Mrs. Weasley grew a very strange look on her face, and it only went away when Mr. Weasley took her hand and squeezed it. “Perhaps we should all give the book a chance, then,” said Mrs. Weasley.

The elder boys, for want of something else to do in all likelyhood, agreed and they sat around after dinner in the living room. Roswitha cracked open her copy of _Dracula_ and began to read, “Jonathan Harker’s Journal…” as everyone else listened with interest (Ron and Mrs. Weasley knitted while they listened).

After the first chapter, Roswitha passed it along to Ron, who set down his knitting and began to read aloud. When he finished a chapter he passed it to Fred, who passed it to George by the next chapter. By the end of chapter four two hours had gone by, and by all rights they all should have begun to get ready for bed. But, Mr. Jonathan Harker had ended his journal in a place where he was about to fight for his immortal soul and so Mr. Weasley said, “Go on then, George, pass it here, we’ll read a little more.”

Mr. Weasley split that chapter with Ginny, as they were letters from one person to another, with Percy, Fred and George chiming in as other characters. Alas, when they made it to the end of chapter six and they still had not found out what happened to Jonathan Harker, Mrs. Weasley declared it to be late, and they were all to wash up and go to bed.

Pappa had not shown up to claim her the next day, so it was assumed that his business in France kept him. Roswitha helped with chores, and helped Fred and George rope Percy into a game of pick up Quidditch (Percy had only grumbled a little). When it got a little too hot for Quidditch, they changed into bathing costumes and lounged around in the “pond” (which was, in Roswitha’s opinion, entirely big enough to be a lake), swimming or floating lazily as the day wore on. When they came in to change for dinner that night, Mrs. Weasley presented her with a letter from her father.

“What’s it say?” Ron asked.

“He’s finished his business in France, and will travel back first thing tomorrow morning,” said Roswitha as her eyes scanned down the letter. “He was a little too magically exhausted to come tonight.”

“What is it that your father does, Roswitha?” Mrs. Weasley asked.

“He’s a cursebreaker,” said Roswitha, “like, erm, Bill, wasn’t it?” Roswitha asked the Weasley collective.

“That’s the one,” said Percy, nodding. “I wouldn’t imagine there was a lot of cursebreaking work in France, though -- Bill had to go all the way to Egypt to get his first job.”

“Well, it was a number of years ago,” said Roswitha. She had asked Pappa about his business once, and he had said to her that his particular business relied on who you knew. Since Roswitha couldn’t say if he had meant cursebreaking in general, she didn’t mention it. Part of being well connected was being well to do -- she knew that much -- and Rowitha didn’t want to offend the Weasleys at all.

They read several more chapters of Dracula after supper, and Roswitha went to bed feeling quite content (especially since she and Ginny staid up talking after they had gone to bed). As she fell asleep, Roswitha told herself that she would be excited to see her father tomorrow. After all, as someone had once said, if you say something enough, you can believe it, and if you believe it, it becomes true.

Pappa arrived just after breakfast, stepping elegantly out of floo without a speck of dust on him. “Good morning,” he said to the present company.

“‘Morning Pappa.” Roswitha rose from the table when she saw him and came to give him a hug, even though she was quite in envy of his emaculate state.

Pappa wrapped one arm around her, as he held a basket in the other. “Have you had a good visit, my darling?”

“A very good visit.” Roswitha pulled back so that he might say hello to Mrs. Weasley.

Mrs. Weasley surprised them both by also giving Pappa a hug. “Regulus! My, you did hit a growth spurt eventually. I suppose you don’t remember me very well, though, we only met once or twice when you were still quite young just, before our Bill was first went into Hogwarts.”

“I do remember you, Mrs. Weasley,” said Pappa, his cheeks tinged pink. Roswitha thought it might have been because he was not used to being treated so warmly. “And, erm, I’ve brought gifts, to say thank you for hosting Roswitha on such short notice.”

Mrs. Weasley smiled warmly, the same way she smiled at Roswitha or any of her own children, and accepted the basket. “How thoughtful! Thank you, dear. Roswitha, why don’t you go and pack up your things, and all of you can say goodbye while I have a chat with your father.”

Pappa gave her a sort of look that begged, “please do not abandon me.”

Roswitha smiled, kissed her father’s cheek and said, “Yes, Mrs. Weasley.”

Fred and George snickered as they trailed behind her, Ron, and Ginny as they walked upstairs to collect all Roswitha’s things. “Nice one, Ros,” said Fred.

“Though it may come back to haunt you,” said George.

“Pappa hasn’t had very much practice talking to other parents yet,” Roswitha explained. “Except the Granger-Comptons really and Mr. Dunbar. But he and Father are hosting a ‘suprise’ birthday party for me in a few days when Father gets back from his potions convention, and I can’t let him go in the experience unpracticed, now can I?” Roswitha batted her eyelashes at them, and while the twins laughed, Percy rolled his eyes and shoo’d her along.

Roswitha collected her swimming costume, which she had hung in the bathroom to dry, and the various bits and bobs that had scattered in Ginny’s and Ron’s rooms before hugging each Weasley goodbye so there would be no fighting by the floo for hugs. When she made her way back downstiars, she found Pappa chatting with Mrs. Weasley at the kitchen table. They both had a fresh cup of tea in front of them, and Pappa looked much more relaxed now.

She perused the gift basket why she waited for them, which contained a bottle of wine, several pastries, chocolates, and, curiously, seed packets.

“Are you ready to go then, my darling heart?” Pappa asked, drawing her attention.

“I think so,” said Roswitha, smiling. “Thank you very much for letting me stay, Mrs. Weasley.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Weasley rose and gave her a bear of a hug, which felt so warm and safe, Roswitha didn’t want to leave it. “It was the least I could do after your parents took in my four over Christmas. You’re welcome back any time, my dear. Any time at all.”

Pappa rose from his seat, giving Mrs. Weasley a hug as well in place of his normal handshake He reached out for Roswitha, and they joined hands, walking out to the garden together.

“Bye, Ros!” Ron called from above.

“Bye!” Roswitha turned to wave to him.

“Deep breath,” Pappa reminded her.

Roswitha breathed it, and when she breathed out, they were standing in front of Number 12.

“Shall we take a moment to bathe and then go have a very fancy brunch?” Pappa asked.

“Oh, yes please!” said Roswitha, pushing open the front door and racing inside.

Father returned the day after they got back from the Weasleys, exhausted from having to talk to other potioneers for four days and days of travel book ending the social interactions. Roswitha brought out her copy of _Dracula_, and even though she had to start again from the beginning, the family spent a quiet evening reading from the book to one another. They had another few days together as a family, going to yoga class together, lazing about the house, and reading the book. Thankfully it was enough down time that Father was only slightly scowly when they held her birthday party on Saturday the eighth.

Roswitha had wanted to invite everyone in her year, but her parents had emphatically disagreed. “Ten children under our roof for one day is too many,” said Father, quite sternly. “As it is, inviting the yearmates in your house will have to do.”

Roswitha hummed and hawed, but agreed. In the end, she did have a perfectly lovely birthday party, where she and her friends swam in the conservatory for much of the morning, and after lunch went up to the playroom and had many silly games, like Twister and Pin the Horn on the Unicorn. It ended up being a fantastic party, but the next day, Roswitha felt a little more empty for not having her friends around.

As such, she found herself wandering around the house without aim. Anything she thought of brought little pleasure — even the idea of exploring the attic or reminding herself that she would be back at Hogwarts in a few short weeks. Roswitha let herself wallow in her own melancholy for a moment and that was when she heard the music.

Roswtha lingered in the doorway of the music room, the guitar strains rolling over her skin, raising up goose flesh. Father sat on one of the plush couches, marking up a book he was reading. Roswitha must have stood there for sometime, because at last he looked up at her. “Did you need something, child?”

“I know this song,” said Roswitha, feeling her face furrow and scrunch.

Father looked amused though. “Do you now? It was released in 1973, you know. There’s more than a chance that you’ve heard it.”

Roswitha hummed along with the song, “_Speak to me only with your eyes, It is to you I give this tune_,” she sang out softly, twirling into the room, bare feet scratchin just gently against the carpet. “I think Mama used to sing me this song,” Roswitha said, her words a rush of sound against the cascade of guitars and viols.

Father blinkined all at once. He had been smiling as he watched her dance. “Really?”

Roswitha nodded, feeling dizzy from her twirling. She collapsed at Father’s feet. “I think so, anyway. It may have just been a dream.”

“Hmm… Do you know who gave me this record, child?” Father asked as he reached out and brushed the hair out of her face.

“Who?” Roswitha asked, shaking her head.

“Your Aunt Lily.”

Father had refered to his friend Lily before — mostly in hushed conversations with Pappa and one memorable occassion when he had taken her to see _The Sword in the Stone_ and _Monty Python’s Holy Grail_. Roswitha knew that Lily had been Father’s best friend growing up, and that she had died far too young, leaving a daugher behind. Roswitha imagined that Lily would have been something like her godmother had she lived. “You miss Aunt Lily quite a lot, don’t you, Father?”

Father nodded. “I do.” He stood, pulling Roswitha too her feet when he did. He spun her around as the music began to pick up in tempo again and Roswitha laughed. “She would remind me to smile, make me dance when I didn’t feel like it, but it would bring up my mood. I loved her a great deal.”

“Like the way you love Pappa?” Roswitha asked, looking up at him. She had grown again, but Father was nearly six feet tall, so she still only came up to his shoulder.

Father chuckled. “I thought I did, for a long time. When I fell in love with your Pappa though, I realized I was lying to myself, and using my love for Lily to do so. She was my best friend, though — my only friend for a long time. I might have even been able to reconcil myself civility to Potter —” Father coughed and corrected himself, “that is, to your Uncle James in time, if Lily and I had made up.”

“You were fighting?” Roswitha asked, as he spun her around again.

“To my greatest regret, we started fighting when we were still at Hogwarts,” said Father. He frowned, looking off over Roswitha’s shoulder to somewhere in the distant past. “We hadn’t made up when she died. I missed a lot — her wedding, Heather’s christening, their… their funerals...”

Even though he didn’t much like hugs, Roswitha hugged her father anyway. He hugged her back, tightly, like he wanted to make sure he was still there.

“I missed sharing falling in love with her,” said Father as he rested his chin on her head. “I missed sharing you with her — sharing with her how loving a husband and child has changed me.”

“I changed you?” Roswitha asked, her voice muffled by his shirt.

Father chuckled, “With every challenge you present, child.” Then he kissed her forehead, saying, “I do love you, child, though I seldom say it.”

Roswitha knew this, for though Father didn’t say he loved her, he expressed his love in other ways. In his tone of voice when he called her “child,” in his fear as she had adventures, in how he taught her to scrub cauldrons, in his patience with potions making, in how he had read her stories and shared with her films he enjoyed. “I know,” said Roswitha.

She had turned over another thought in her mind, though, about Father’s love, and it came to fruition just a moment later. “Father?”

“Yes?”

“Why have I never met Heather?”

Roswitha had surmised that Aunt Lily’s daughter was the very same Heather Potter who had defeated the Dark Lord many years ago. It was coming to her now that the dark lord’s defeat was likely the bad business Father had referenced some years ago, which had caused Lily’s and James’ deaths. But surely, even if Heather had not elected to come to Hogwarts, surely Father would not have let his best friend’s daughter be ignorant of her heritage.

Father had pulled away from her and his father was marred with a frown. “I’m afraid, my child, that I do not know the answer to that question. And I do not know that I ever shall.”

“Is it…?” Roswitha studied Father’s face as it became as if a storm cloud had passed over it. The question about the woman called Petunia who did not like Father died on her lips. “Nevermind. I’m sorry I’ve made you sad.”

Father shook his head. “No, that’s alright. It wasn’t your doing child.”

The moved on to talk of other things, but now the fate of poor, Heather Potter stuck in Roswitha’s mind.

At least, of course, until the next day. By the next day, Roswitha would have forgotten about Heather entirely. But that night — that night, Roswitha dreamed.


	2. The New Beginnings

Roswitha dreamed she was running through a street. Her breath came out in labored pants and her muscles ached from running so much. Behind her, Roswitha could hear others running after her. Their footsteps beat against the pavement like a war march, thundering with murderous intent. 

When Roswitha chanced a look over her shoulder, she saw that they were a pack of boys, no older than her. But for the fear, oh the fear, which overtook her they may as well have been rabid dogs intent on ripping her apart.

“Run, Potter!” called their leader at the head. “Run, run, run, as fast as you can!”

Roswitha knew she could run very fast indeed — she cut off the road through an undeveloped field of tall grass. She knew the boys would give pause when brambles and thickets cut and snagged them, but she wouldn’t. Roswitha would run and run, and run she did. 

“We’ll get you Potter!” the boys crowed as they tried to unstick themselves and get around the brambles. “Just you wait!” 

Roswitha didn’t wait — she ran and ran, but the dream twisted to where it felt like no matter how much she ran, she couldn’t get away. The houses never changed here, all the streets were the same, and every time Roswitha thought she had somewhere to hide, she could hear their foot steps again. She could feel them nipping at her heels and it was enough to make her — 

Then there was a great crash, and Roswitha found herself sitting up in bed, Pappa on her floor, scrambling up to his feet. He must have hit the door on his way in. “Pappa are you alright?” she asked. 

“Oh my darling heart.” Pappa collapsed onto her bed and pulled her close to him. “You were screaming — the most horrible sound. Are you well? Has anyone hurt you?”

Father was in the doorway now too, panting, face white as he lit the lamps in the room. 

“I’m alright,” said Roswitha curling around her pappa. “It was just a dream — a nightmare. I felt like I couldn’t escape.”

Father knelt by her bedside, hand on her back. “What was it about?”

The words came to her lips, filled with the terror she had just felt. But as suddenly as she had awoken, her words died on her lips. “I can’t remember,” said Roswitha. A strange, hollow feeling filled her up inside, as she _had_ known, not a moment before, what the dream had been about. But now she did not. Just as suddenly, she began to cry, weeping into Pappa’s chest.

None of them slept for some time after that. 

Her parents were not keen to let Roswitha out of their sight after that. She knew for a fact that Pappa had contracts he turned down, and Father really needed to be spending more time at Hogwarts now that term was closer to starting. But they almost seemed more shaken than she had been by the dream, perhaps because she had never been prone to bad dreams in the past. In whatever case, they indulged her in trips to her favorite museums and libraries, to used book stores, and insisted on coming along when she and the pride were set to meet up at Diagon Alley. 

“It’s going to be very boring,” said Roswitha, firmly, as she laced up her walking boots. “We’re just going over business.” Dean _had_ said on their phone call yesterday that he had a surprise, but Roswitha really didn’t think her parents would be all that interested in waht they had planned. 

Pappa only snorted. “I’m sure there will be other parents there, darling heart. Besides, we still need to get some of your school supplies.” 

Plop had been able to let down the robes and skirts Roswitha had nearly grown out of, and none of her texts from the previous year had changed, but there was the matter of the Gilderoy Lockhart books. Roswitha already had two of them, but she had bought them thinking that they were novels. When Pappa had informed her that they were meant to be fact, Roswitha had sworn off buying any more. 

However, it seemed this year, Hogwarts was due to employ Gilderoy Lockhart. Father still wore a scowl anytime it came up. Pappa had developed the unfortunate habit of saying, “I do not envy you, my girl.” Apparently, they had both been at school with Lockhart, and he was not the sort of person one liked to be around. 

They apparated to Diagon Alley, as usual, but Pappa let out a shudder at a banner hanging over Flourish and Blotts. Guilderoy Lockhart had been there a week before, signing autographs. “Oh, I do not envy you, my girl.”

Roswitha was beginning not to envy herself as well. “Can we please just get my books?” she asked. 

As the approached the door, a tall man in a brown long coat stepped out, brushing back his sandy colored hair so that he might put on his hat. At the sight of him, both Pappa and Father stopped dead, and the man stopped as well. 

For a moment, all three simply stared. 

Roswitha, unamused, coughed. 

“Good day, Remus,” said Pappa. 

Remus nodded to them. “Good day, Regulus, Severus, miss.” 

“So,” said Father, in something of a drawl. “You did manage to stay on English soil.” 

“I have,” said Remus, his face passive and cordial. His eyes darted back to Pappa. “I’ve finished things in America for now, and I’ve moved back almost permanently. It’s good to see you’re both well. I…” he hesitated a moment before pressing on. “For what it is worth, I am sorry about how everything worked out. For all of us.”

Roswitha felt full of questions, but her parents sour expressions told her not to ask. 

Remus could sense their tension as well. “Well, then, good day, and have a good term.” 

He directed that last comment at her, so Roswitha nodded cordially to him and replied, “Thank you, sir.” 

Remus moved away from them, walking down the street. Her parents seemed keen on watching him go, but Roswitha pulled them both inside the bookstore, to an unoccupied, dark corner. “What was that about?” she hissed. “Who was he?” 

Her parents shared a wordless conversation for a moment, before Pappa pursed his lips. “That was Remus Lupin. He was… friends with your Uncle Sirius.” 

“Friends like how I’m friends with Hermione,” said Roswitha, slowly, “or friends like how people think you’re friends with Father?” 

“I never really —” Pappa started to say.

“The latter,” said Father with finality. He looked her dead in the eye. “If you ever meet Remus Lupin alone, you are to get away from him as fast as you can. I don’t care of you have to curse or strike him, am I understood?” 

“Well, alright,” said Roswitha, frowning. “But why?”

“Because he’s a werewolf,” said Father.

“Severus!” Pappa hissed. 

“He is!” said Father, firmly. “A tame one or not, you are never, ever to be alone with him, am I understood?” 

Father rarely seemed afraid — of the two of them, Pappa was always more emotional, and Father more collected. But Roswitha could see now, in Father’s eyes, something like what she had seen when the troll attacked Hogwarts. “Yes, sir,” she said simply. 

“Alright Captain, Professor, Mr. Black?” Dean had entered the store with Maj. Thomas and they had noticed the family standing in the dark corner. 

Roswitha wriggled away from her parents. “Alright, Dean. Morning, Maj. Thomas.” When greeting the major, Roswitha made sure to snap to a salute. 

Maj. Thomas chuckled and saluted in return. “Cheeky. Might want to step to, children, else you’ll be late.” 

Roswitha took Dean by the hand, and together they went to the Hogwarts books display. Roswitha had Father’s old copy of _Standard Grade Spells Book 2, _but she still needed to get five of the Gilderoy Lockhart books. Dean was reading the opening to one, his nose rolled up. “Is this bloke serious?” he asked. 

“Unfortunately, I think he is.” Roswitha shrugged. “My parents both went to school with him, and all Pappa keeps saying is that he doesn’t envy me.” 

Dean grumbled. “If we have one more bad defense instructor, Mum might pull me out of Hogwarts,” he said in a low voice. He flicked his eyes over to where the adults were chatting. “She thought it was strange that we needed classes in how to defend ourselves in the first place. Like — that it was standard, I mean. I only convinced her by saying that wizards have a leg up on muggles that way, since Mum thinks everyone should be able to defend themselves.” 

Roswitha harrumphed. “Well, I agree with your mum about being able to defend ourselves, but I don’t think you should have to leave Hogwarts. We study in the club house for a reason, and all the other professors are masters in their field.” 

Dean perked up. “I didn’t know that! Well, good. And you might be on to something, Captain, about studying in the clubhouse.” 

Roswitha patted his back as she finished collecting the Lockhart books she needed. “You let me know when you figure it out, Q.” 

Dean bumped her hip with his as he, too, picked up his books and they made their way to the counter. 

Books in hand, they trooped over to Fortescue’s Icecream Shoppe, Pappa holding extra tight to Father so he might not run away, and Maj. Thomas laughing at them all the while. 

The parents had their own booth and Mr. Dunbar waved them over with an, “Alright, Reg, Severus, Em.” 

The rest of the pride was seated a little further to the back of the restaurant, and made room for them in the booth. When they sat down, Fay presented Roswitha a gavel. “It’s from the union meetings,” said Fay. “So we have to be careful with it.” 

“That’s going well then?” Roswitha asked, as she took the gavel gingerly. 

Fay nodded. “He was a little confused that I wanted to come at first, but he’s sort of keen that I’m showing an interest.” 

They devolved for a bit talking about their summers, who had done what or gone where, before Seamus asked if they should come to order. 

Roswitha tapped the gavel against the table, not wanting to break it and not wanting to make it too loud. “We’ll come to order then, on the suggestion of Secretary Finnigan.” 

They all giggled, even Seamus who flushed a little. 

Hermione had made agendas for them all, typed out on a typewriter, which she passed out. 

“First order of business,” said Roswitha, reading for the agenda. “Does anyone wish to make a new nomination for Captain or Quartermaster?” 

Everyone held their tongue for a moment, just looking at one another, as they waited for a moment. 

“Very well,” said Roswitha, resisting the urge to giggle again. “Then, shall we have a motion to retain all current officers as they are?”

“I’ll make a motion to keep Roswitha as Captain and Dean as Quartermaster,” said Fay, raising her hand. 

“I’ll second,” said Sophie from Fay’s side. 

“All in favor?” Seamus asked, prompting everyone to raise their hands. “All opposed?” They all lowered their hands. “And Dean and Ros are abstaining for themselves…”

Roswitha gave Seamus and Hermione a moment to jot down their notes. “Motion passes,” she said, tapping the gavel against table. “Any other electory business?”

Neville raised his hand. “I would like to motion for the creation of the secretary role. Since Seamus and Hermione are doing it anyway.” 

Both Seamus and Hermione flushed, opening their mouths to protest.

Before either of them could, Ron raised his hand, saying, “I’ll second the motion.”

“All in favor?” Roswitha asked. 

Everyone raised their hands, even Seamus and Hermione when they had had a moment to recover. 

“Any nominations?” Roswitha asked cheerfully. 

Hermione raised her hand. “I want to nominate Seamus. Because I looked at last year’s records,” once they had been translated went unsaid, “and I think he did a more complete job than me.”

“What?” Seamus asked, turning a little red. “No, you should be secretary too. You do just as good of a job, really.” 

“Well, but I want to be prefect in a few years,” said Hermione, nibbling her lip. “And I just don’t think its fair to hold two offices, you know?” 

“Nothing and no one says you can’t,” said Lavender, rolling her eyes. “C’mon, Hermione; besides, in a few years I might make prefect. I’ll second Seamus, someone nominate Hermione.” 

“I’ll motion that we table the discussion of multiple offices until such an occurrence arises,” said Parvati. “And I’ll nominate Hermione to be co-secretary with Seamus.” 

“We’re a little out of order,” said Roswitha, turning to Seamus and Hermione. “Will you both accept your nominations?” 

“I will,” said Seamus. Then he turned to Hermione and said, “I’d really like it if you did too, though.” 

“Oh.” Hermione gave a little huff, mostly in jest. “Alright, yes, I’ll accept.”

For the sake of the process, they redid their seconds before they commenced voting. While Seamus and Hermione abstained from their own vote, they still were elected to the office of secretary. Fay revisited Parvati’s idea of tabling discussion of multiple offices until it happened, Ron seconded her, and then the motion carried. When the voting had finished, Roswitha asked if anyone had any other business. No one spoke up. 

“Well,” said Roswitha. “If there is no other business, I move to adjorn this meeting in favor of ice cream.”

“I’ll second that,” said Dean, grinning. 

“All in favor?” Roswitha asked, prompting everyone to raise their hands. “Opposed? Abstain?” she asked to no hands. Roswitha tapped the gavel against the table again and announced, “Meeting adjorned.” 

“Hear, hear,” said Mr. Fortescue as he began to serve them all prescooped bowls of icecream. 

They all gave him a hearty thank you before they tucked in, and Mr. Fortescue set bowls in front of their parents. 

“Was this your idea?” Mr. Dunbar asked Pappa. 

Pappa only shook his head over his chocolate chip icecream. “I’ve no idea how she does it, but Roswitha knows how to ask for anything and everything to get people to go along with her.”

Mr. Dunbar squinted at Regulus. Then he asked, “Does she want to join a welding union by any chance?” 

That set the adults to laughing, though Roswitha didn’t know why. She had had to ask for everything she had ever received -- even her vast wealth. And most of the time, asking worked out alright. Sometimes people told her no and sometimes she did things without asking, but for the most part asking seemed to work out alright. Especially if you asked a magical building for something. 

When everyone finished with their icecream the children all cleared away their bowls, delivering them back to Mr. Fortescue, before the adults called them over to the other table. 

“Did you want to tell them, Emmeline?” Mr. Roper asked. “Since it was your idea?” 

“Alright then,” said Maj. Thomas, nodding. “Well, you can say thank you to everyone as we all chipped in a little to have these made, but, well, I’m Army, I like patches.” She pulled out a set of patches from her pocket, passing some to Dean, Roswitha, Hermione, and Seamus. 

Each patch was made like a shield and had a gold lion rampant on a field of red. At the top was neatly stitched, “Gryffindor ‘98,” and at the bottom was their office. 

“You have three each for your work robes,” said Maj. Thomas. “In the army, you stitch them on the upper left arm, but given that you are a student organization and not the army, the four of you can decide what to do.” 

“Thank you,” said Roswitha as she traced the intricate lion on the stitch work. She heard her friends echoing the sentiment. The patches were absolutely beautiful and seemed to shine in the light. 

They stayed and chatted a while longer, both parents and children alike. After about ten minutes after the parents had given out the patches, Roswitha thought the waiting had become a little odd. It wasn’t as if they disliked one another so much they were eager to get away, but the parents were always saying things about needing to get away for supper or chores or something like that. Roswitha studied the group of parents, who did indeed seem eager ot leave, but then noticed there was no one there representing Neville. 

Right as Roswitha came to the conclusion that the adults were all hanging around for Neville’s sake, the bell above Mr. Fortescue’s door rang. A woman entered — tall, lithe, her grey hair pinned back into a neat bun nearly obscured by a hat bearing a large vulture, silk dress and robes, cut to a modest figure, she struck a fearsome impression at once. Pappa and Father rose, prompting the other men to do the same. 

“Good day, Madam Longbottom,” said Pappa, a greeting echoed by all present.

Madam Longbottom regarded Pappa for a moment, a slight twitch in the direction of a grimace around her mouth. “Good day, Mr. Black. Neville, attend, we are nearly late for tea.” 

Neville murmured a good-bye to them all, before going to his grandmother’s side. Madam Longbottom turned without any further salutation and left, Neville trailing behind her. 

“Regulus, you heart breaker,” said Maj. Thomas, as everyone rose and began to collect any belongings. “What on earth did you do to that woman? She seemed to hate you.”

Pappa said nothing, but gave a pointed look to the children present, as if to say, “That is not a discussion for young ears.” Then he reached a hand out for Roswitha, who came and took it, “Say good-bye, darling heart, we’re late for our own tea.” 

Roswitha wished everyone a good-bye, before the three of them went into the street to apparate. They made it home, changed into robes and more formal clothing, before flooing again to the Malfoy Estate. Roswitha endured the pleasantries of tea and debated in her head how to ask her parents about what had occurred in the icecream parlor. When Narcissa suggested she and Roswitha go for a turn about the gardens, Roswitha realized she didn’t have to ask her _parents_. 

“Cousin?” said Roswitha delicately as they traversed the gravel path. 

“Yes, dear one?” Narcissa asked. 

“I need to inquire about something of a delicate nature,” said Roswitha, slowly, “as it may affect my future prospects.” 

Roswitha was only twelve, but Narcissa had been talking of her prospects for more than a year now. Thus, as Roswitha had been the one to broach the topic this time, Narcissa beamed and said, “Go on.” 

“Is there any reason for the Longbottom family to hate us?” Roswitha asked. 

Narcissa’s glad smile dropped away at once. “Are you considering marrying into the _Longbottom _family?”

Roswitha hummed. She wasn’t really considering anything of the kind — she was, after all, twelve. For the most part, dating didn’t even really appeal to her. “Neville Longbottom and I are in the same house,” said Roswitha after a moment. “He’s a good boy, who will be a strong wizard after some training. And the Longbottoms are not poor — they can trace their lineage back to the Roman-Britons after all. But today when Madam Longbottom came to collect him, she gave Pappa such a stare…” 

“Oh my…” Narcissa sighed, rolling her eyes. “Yes, well, she would have good reason to. Augusta Longbottom only ever had one son, whom she adored more than anything. He fought in the war, and our families were on opposite sides.” 

Roswitha felt her stomach sinking. “Was it Uncle Sirius?” 

“No.” Narcissa kept her eyes straight ahead, watching the path as they walked down. “It was Bellatrix — after the Potter girl defeated the Dark Lord, Bellatrix went to the Longbottom House in a fit of pique. She and her husband, brother-by-law, and another of their close friends tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom to the point of madness.”

Roswitha inhaled sharply. “Oh, gods, is that why…?”

Narcissa nodded slowly. “Yes — that is why Bellatrix is in Azkaban, and that is why Madam Longbottom likely hates our family. If her grandson does not share her hatred, however, it may not matter.”

“How could it not matter?!” Roswitha asked. 

“Mind. your. Tone,” said Narcissa, slowly, her brown eyes going sharp.

Roswitha swallowed, pushed down any anger or other emotion. “Yes, of course, cousin, I apologize.” 

“Very good,” said Narcissa, nodding. “Neville Longbottom will become the head of his family at seventeen — even if Augusta wished to delay him, she could only do so until he turned twenty-one, but I doubt she does. After that, she has no say in who he weds or doesn’t. So, then, if he is the superior one of your suitors, and you are willing to wile away your prime years waiting for him, then that will be up to you and your father.” 

“Up to me?” Roswitha knew that her parents would never force her to be with anyone she didn’t want to be. But she had always thought everyone else would assume it was Pappa who arranged whatever match Roswitha would make. 

“You are Head of the House,” said Narcissa, raising an eyebrow. “Therefore you have say in House Matters. Humph, be thankful for that ring on your finger, little cousin. You’ll save yourself a lot of trouble with that.” 

Roswitha let them fall into silence, turning over the thought in her head until Narcissa decided to introduce a new topic of conversation. The topic of marriage had been brought up as a distraction, but noiw she gave it some serious thought. It made her headache — she was only twelve, after all, and she likely would not be married until she left Hogwarts. Six years seemed like a long time, well, five — she would be allowed to court when she turned seventeen. 

“You won’t make me marry anyone I don’t want to, will you?” Roswitha asked her parents later that evening when we returned home. 

Pappa looked up from the curse breaking journal he was reading, a mighty frown spread on his face. “Darling heart, why are you thinking of marriage? You’re too young for such talk.” 

Roswitha took his answer as an assurance that he _wouldn’t_ make her marry against her will, at eighteen or otherwise, and put it from her mind. 

\--

On August 24th, Roswitha found one last surprise for her summer when her parents presented her with a packed suitcase and apparated them to Paddington Station. 

“We’re not going to Hogwarts early, are we?” Roswitha asked as they boared a train.

“Dumbledore couldn’t pay me enough,” said Father, as they boarded and found a compartment. 

“Are we here to get a bear?” Roswitha asked. 

“No bears,” said Pappa as he loaded their suitcases into a luggage rack. 

The train was a newer model, not at all like the scarlet steam engine of the Hogwarts Express. The seats weren’t quite as comfortable, though, and Pappa pressed her down after Roswitha tried bouncing on them. The announcer came on the line not long after they boarded, informing them of service to Newton Abbott.

“Why are we going to Newton Abbott?” Roswitha asked, peering out the window as they train pulled away. 

“To change trains, darling heart,” said Pappa, grinning as he pulled out a notebook. “I hope you’ve brought something to do, it will be a couple of hours.” 

Roswitha sat down next to him and pulled out her diary intent on updating it. “I wouldn’t have thought you two would want to take a train.” 

Father hummed as he reviewed his own material wrapped up in a notebook. “Long distance trains are not so odious as the metro trains.”

“And you’re sure you won’t tell me where we’re going?” Roswitha asked. 

Pappa looked up from his notebook and smiled at Father. “Aren’t you glad we’re getting married.”

Father snorted. “Couldn’t be happier.” But there was a genuine sort of light in his eye as he said it. 

His love made Roswitha smile as she curled around her diary and began to record what had happened over the past few days. 

The ride did take the better part of three hours, but towards the end there came a glimmer on the horizon that grew progressively stronger as they went on. Roswitha found herself staring at it, transfixed. 

“Are we… are we going to the ocean?” she asked, tearing her eyes away from the sight and toward her parents. 

They shared a secret smile, but said nothing. 

Roswitha slumped in her seat, absolutely floored. 

Pappa nudged her with his shoulder. “And here I thought you would be more pleased that a plan of yours was coming together.”

Roswitha turned to stare at him with open mouthed shock. “What?”

“Dear child,” said Father, as he and Pappa chuckled. “Did you think we weren’t going to notice you were planning a trip to another city?”

“We realize it was probably a graduation trip you wanted to take with your friends,” said Pappa as he carded his fingers through her long hair. “But Father and I thought you might still like to go and see a few sights — swim in the ocean. This is one of the only times of year when it won’t be positively freezing.”

“Only mostly freezing.” 

Roswitha let herself exhale and threw her arms around Pappa’s shoulders. He hugged her back gladly, before directing her to hug Father as well, because it was mostly his idea. Roswitha hugged her father gladly — they still had no idea she had stolen an important wizarding artifact and posted it back to the Flamels rather than figuring out how to sneak out of the house for an entire day. 

The trip went smoothly, after the surprise of the reveal. Pappa had booked them into a sea side resort with a spa (which Roswitha did not see the point of, but both her parents seemed to look forward to), and had gotten a map from the concierge with the safe parts of the city outlined, so that Roswitha may wander around when her parents were getting their massages or otherwise occupied. 

But there were plenty of times they went out together — to the local aquarium, to a dinosaur museum, and to the beach as well. They had a glad time all around, sometimes simply laying out on the beach. 

Of course, that meant that something would go wrong at the last minute. 

The morning before they were due to leave, it began to rain quite heavily. Roswitha frowned as she stood at her window, looking out at the dreary day. Her parents always liked to sleep late on days when it rained hard. Truthfully, they were probably doing… something else as well. In either case, they probably wouldn’t crawl from bed until midday. But Roswitha had woken at six and gotten in a run before the downpour began. She waited until nine to see if her parents might rise past her expectations, but they did not. 

Roswitha dressed in a warm dress, woolen socks, her walking boots. She sat at the little vanity provided by the hotel and brushed her hair until it shone. Then, she made little plaits in her hair, occassionally threading in the beads that Cousin Narcissa had given her for her birthday. Roswitha took her pappa’s long coat from where it was laying out and pulled it over her shoulders. Roswitha paused to write a note to her parents, then, grabbing her satchel, the map marked with her safe zones, and hotel umbrella, she set out in search of a good look around. 

The air smelled like ozone and petrichor as she walked along the road leading away from the hotel. Roswitha inhaled it deeply, trying to press it inside of herself like a memory. At last, she came to a cafe, still open, with their outdoor tables pressed together under an awning. 

The hostess looked her up and down, frowning as she did. “Are you alone, love?” 

“My parents are having a lie in,” said Rowitha, shrugging. “So, yes.” 

The hostess only turned up her nose at Roswitha’s honesty. “And how do I know you can pay this fine morning?” 

“She can be seated with me if it is any issue.”

Roswitha stiffened as the hostess turned toward a woman sitting next to the wall of the restaurant. Perenelle Flamel looked striking, even in the grey of the day, wearing a silk dress that would have looked out of place on anyone less elegant. 

“Are you sure, ma’am?” asked the hostess. “I wouldn’t want to make trouble for you?”

Perenelle smiled. “Oh, Miss Black and I are already acquainted. It would be remiss of me not to look after her when she is alone. Come come.” 

Roswitha moved somewhat stiffly but did walk over to Perenelle’s table and took a seat across from the woman. Perenelle served her tea from a pot already prepared. “Help yourself to some fruit,” said Perenelle, gesturing to the plate laying out. “How do you take your tea?” 

“Oh, two sugars please,” said Roswitha, as she selected grapes, cherries, and slices of dragon fruit from the platter. 

“I can highly recommend the strawberries,” said Perenelle, passing her a tea cup. 

“Thank you,” Roswitha replied. “I’m afraid they don’t agree with me, however.” She figured telling a woman who had coolly rejected her months before would not like a story about how the seeds in strawberries made Roswitha uncomfortable. 

Perenelle simply smiled and said, “Very well, then, Miss Black, what brings you to Torquay?” 

Roswitha managed not to stammer as she explained that her parents had brought her on a family vacation before the start of the school year. “I’d never seen the ocean before this trip.” 

“A shame,” said Perenelle, sipping her tea as a waiter came by their table and deposited a stack of crepes, various fillings, and and an omelette du fromage in front of both of them. At Roswitha’s curious look, Perenelle merely replied, “I read the cards this morning, and they told me I would have a visitor.” 

“What if I hadn’t come?” Roswitha asked, tilting her head to one side 

Perenelle shrugged. “Then I would have had two omelettes. Eat up.” 

Roswitha did. The omelette was pure perfection — soft, the cheese and egg blending together in soft delight. Roswitha shivered while eating it, if only to avoid moaning in a public setting. “It’s delicious,” she said, after a few bites, taking a moment to sip her tea so her ravenous appetite wouldn’t get the better of her. 

“The ones here, I’ve found, are as close as they come to my favorite restaurant in Paris,” said Perenelle, smiling fondly. “When are you coming out into society Mlle Black? You must do a season in Paris, there is nothing like it.”

Roswitha hummed. “I think, at the soonest, not until I’m fourteen. Pappa will probably want to wait until I’m sixteen, so my cousin will get him to compromise for fifteen.” 

Perenelle laughed. “Protective is he?”

“We didn’t meet until I was nine,” said Roswitha, making an effort not to shrug. “I think he wants all the time he can get with me as a child.” 

“He is a wise man, then,” said Perenelle with a little hum. “For children grow too quickly. If you should become a mother, you will learn this.” 

They talked of things from there that were of little consequence, what subjects Roswitha would consider for her electives in her third year, the other places she might like to visit, which, as it devolved into Perenelle’s favorite places, allowed Rosiwtha to ask about Perenelle’s favorite points in history. 

“Oh,” Perenelle waved her off. “It’s not as grand as people think it was. We have working toilets now, small pox is obliterated, and it isn’t as if I even ever saw Shakespeare live.” 

“Not once?” Roswitha asked. 

“In the 1700s,” said Perenelle, “after the restoration. Alas, no, Nicolas and I much preferred Christopher Marlowe. A shame he died young. Ah, and speak of my Nicolas and he shall appear.”

As M Flamel approached, Roswitha checked the clock and saw they had been breakfasting for two hours and it was now well past eleven o’clock. “Ah, I should go, then.” 

Nicolas greeted Perenelle with a kiss and said, “Don’t leave on my account, Mlle Black. It is a delight to see you, again.”

“It is?” Roswitha asked. There was something to be said for social responsibility — many wizards still followed an ideal that if you were supposed to take charge of a lost child and treat them as your own until discharging them to their parents. Roswitha doubted that Lucius and Narcissa would even let the Weasley children out of their sight in a situation such as this one, though they would do their duty grudgingly. But to be called a delight was another matter entirely. 

Nicolas laughed as he took his seat. “Oh, yes, I can understand your confusion. But after our last meeting Albus — what’s the expression among young people these days? He tore me a new asshole over how I spoke to you.” 

“Nicolas,” Perenelle chided without any heat. “Mlle Noir is a young lady, you can’t use such rough language in front of her.” 

“Menaçant,” said Roswitha, unthinking. 

“Pardon?” Nicolas asked, both he and Perenelle glancing at her curiously. 

“Our family name was Menaçant before we came to England,” said Roswitha, taking up her tea cup. “Probably because we came to France as Vikings.” 

Both Flamels let out polite snorts of laughter. “Oh yes,” said Perenelle, “you will be one to watch. But Nicolas is right, even if his language leaves something to be desired. We should not have treated you so harshly when last we met, though at the time we were both frantic to learn the truth of the matter at hand.” 

“Now, with everything resolved, we can see our actions for the unkindness that they were,” said Nicolas, smiling at her gently. “And we do hope you will forgive us, Mlle Menaçant.” 

Roswitha had had adults chide and discipline her before, and true, none of them had ever been as hard as the Flamels had that day in the headmaster’s tower. But none of them had ever apologized either. “Of course I shall,” said Roswitha, smiling back at them. 

“Thank you, my dear,” said Perenelle, her cool expression giving off a hint of gladness. “It is most appreciated. “Now then, it is near enough time for lunch, shall we order? Perhaps your parents will have found you.”

Madam Flamel must have been a particularly good diviner — or else a great interpreter for human nature — for by the time their food came out, Roswitha’s parents rounded the corner and spotted her. She waved them over and made introductions, the Flamels shaking hands gamely and making small talk about curse breaking and potions alike. Pappa and Father must have been so shocked that they spoke as if they were talking to any other experts in their field. 

As they left lunch, though, the shock came over them and they both stayed very quiet on the walk back to the hotel. Some ten or fifteen minutes later, Pappa managed to ask, “Did we just lunch with two of the oldest known and most respected wizards in our society?”

“Indeed we did, Pappa,” said Roswitha, nodding. 

Father, meanwhile, looked down at her, a frown from lack of understanding on his face. “How does this happen to you, child?” 

Roswitha only shrugged, for she truly didn’t know. 

\--

Learning from the previous year, when they returned from Torquay, Roswitha left her trunk unpacked until the night before she was due to leave. She caught her parents leaving her several items this way (the most hilarious was when Father tried to sneak one of the typewritters she had gifted him over the years into her trunk, only to find everything out and Roswitha sitting guard). She packed carefully, accepting little gifts from the elves (Bits had crafted her a bonsai bush from a cutting of lavender in the conservatory, Plop had put together a sewing kit so Roswitha could keep practicing her sewing, and Kreacher had provided her with a small box for her growing jewlery collection). 

They managed to finish reading _Frankenstein_ as a family the night before she was due to leave for Hogwarts. Father gave her a rare hug as he wouldn’t see her the next morning, and they all went to bed. 

As Pappa walked her to the train station, Roswitha studied him closely. 

“Did I miss a spot shaving?” he asked. 

Roswitha shook her head. “Just wondering if there will be blubbering this time.” 

Pappa then did something she did not expect and stopped on the side walk. He stepped them to the side, after a moment, so they wouldn’t interrupt the flow of traffic, but he looked at her with such a fierce intensity, Roswitha swore she could feel his sorrow and his joy all at one. Pappa brought her close, arms closely around her snug, saying, “I will always cry when you leave me, my darling heart. Even if there is no blubbering.” .

“I love you, Pappa,” Roswitha murmured into his shoulder. 

“I love you, too.” He kissed her forehead and pulled back. “Now, let’s go. I’d hate to have to floo your father and tell him I made you miss the train.” 

They did not miss the train — not even close. They arrived promptly at 11:15, and found an empty compartment for Roswitha. This year, Pappa helped her put her trunk and Hedwig’s carrying cage on the luggage rack before giving her a hug and a kiss. “Be good,” Pappa told her. “No chasing trolls this year, promise?” 

“I promise,” said Roswitha, smiling. 

Pappa smiled back and dropped his hat on her head. “And you promise to write to me? Even if you stop thinking that I’m cool.”

“I’ll never stop thinking that!” Roswitha could not resist another hug, so she didn’t. 

Pappa pulled away smiling and said, “Alright, well, I had better leave or I never will.” And with that, he ducked out of the compartment, only turning back once to wave a further goodbye. 

Roswitha only had a few minute to sit back and feel wistful about the whole thing — about leaving 12 Grimmauld Place again, about saying goodbye to her Pappa, about having to remember to call Father “Professor Snape.” Partly, because the more she thought about it, the more she grew excited at seeing Hogwarts again. Partly because Ron slammed open the compartment door and fairly tackled her. 

“I found you first!” he declared in absolutely glee. 

Roswitha giggled and snorted, even though he had landed on top of her and nearly knocked the wind out of her completely. “Yes, I suppose you did.” 

“Ron, how can you manage to lay across and entire seat and still block the doorway?” Percy asked from the threshold. 

Ron pushed himself off the seat so that his feet slid closer to the doorway. “Talent.”

Percy kicked him. Ron grumbled, but sat up next to Roswitha. 

Percy shuffled in, followed by Oliver and a pretty girl with dark brown hair. 

“Hello! I’m Roswitha Black,” she said, extending a hand. 

“Penelope Clearwater,” said the girl with a bright smile. “I’m Percy’s girlfriend.”

Percy flushed brightly at her declaration and pulled a book from his trouser pocket. 

“Aw, look, Pen.” Oliver took Percy’s face in one hand and kissed his cheek. “He’s so cute when he blushes.”

“The three of you are gross,” Ron replied. 

Penelope rolled her eyes. “_I’m_ not gross. I’ll withhold judgment on Oliver, though.” 

They chatted amicably until the train left the station, at which point Percy and Penelope excused themselves to go find the prefect car. 

“I’ll watch the wains,” said Oliver as he kissed Percy goodbye. 

“You’re a wain,” Ron retorted.

“No kiss for me?” Penelope asked, pouting. 

Oliver grinned, good natured, and kissed her cheek before he settled back in to sit with them. 

“You know, Oliver,” said Roswitha casually. “You are about to be overrun by second years, and possibly some first years as well.” 

Oliver crossed his arms. “Ye cannae scare me. Did you fly this summer?” 

Roswitha nodded. “Just around our garden and when I went to see the Malfoys and the Weasleys.”

Oliver’s face went blank for a second before he asked, “Those were separate trips, I imagine?”

“Yes,” said Roswitha, nodding. 

“Thank goodness,” said Ron. 

Roswitha rolled her eyes. Ron rolled his eyes right back. 

Hermione appeared at the door of the compartment. “Ros! Ron! There you are.” 

As Hermione came in for a hug from each of them, Oliver began to do some math in his head. “There are ten second years, aren’t there?”

“Ten in Gryffindor,” said Roswitha, as she sunk into Hermione’s embrace. “There are forty of us total, and I bet I’ll be getting a visit from a lot of them.” 

Oliver stood with a quick nod. “Right then, I’d best find the rest of the team and see how they fared over the summer.” 

“Can’t scare him my arse,” said Ron as Oliver left. “Your patches are brilliant by the way, did you sew them on already or did you need help? I talked to Mum about it when we got home from Diagon Alley.” 

They talked amongst themselves for a time while waiting on the others to find them. Roswitha wondered who had coordinated the effort that everyone would come to her, as she certainly hadn’t. Even so, it was not long before the compartment threatened to burst with people, Fay, Sophie, Dean and Neville packed in with Ron and Hermione, and then the Hufflepuffs arrived. Seamus led the pack of curious badgers and looked a little uncomfortable with the amount of people following him. 

“Hi all,” said Susan Bones from just behind Seamus. “Roswitha, do you think you could do like you did last year? With the compartment.”

Roswitha got the feeling the Hufflepuffs would not be the last people to visit them and thought that expanding the compartment might be for the best. However, she had an idea in the moment and asked everyone to come out of the compartment for a moment. 

Perhaps because they had all become increasingly rowdy, three compartments around theirs were empty. With everyone in the corridor, Roswitha pressed her hands into the wall of the train and took a deep breath, visualizing what she wanted to occur. When she heard a gasp from some of her year mates, Roswitha opened her eyes and found what she had wanted. The four compartments had all joined together, though the four doors remained. The cushioned seats had turned so they were on the outer wall of the train, or between the doors, and the tables had moved to in between the seats, rather than under the windows. 

“Okay, we can go back in now.” Roswitha would likely never admit it, but she greatly enjoyed the awed looks on peoples faces when she performed these sorts of feats. Instead of admitting anything, or showing how smug she felt, Roswitha settled in the middle of the compartment, facing the doors. 

All of the others managed to remove themselves from their shock and filed in as well. 

“Really, Ros,” said Dean, as he settled in. “I know you say it’s just asking, but there’s got to be more to what you do than all of that.” 

Roswitha shrugged a little and crossed her legs as primly as she could. “I’m not really sure how to explain it much more than that. I’ll try to look into and see what I can find, though. It’s a little early for lunch, if all of you wanted to eat with us.”

The Hufflepuffs shook their heads. “Seamus said that Dean’s mum got him that patch he had,” said Hannah. “And we were wondering where she got them from.”

“There’s a shop close to the army base that does patches, and she had those done custom,” said Dean, with a small shrug. “Nothing enchanted, just embroidery.” 

“And they’re because…?” Hephaestus asked. 

“Mostly because of Dean,” said Roswitha, sticking out her tongue at him. 

Dean rolled his eyes. “You’re the one who said we needed a Quartermaster.” 

“Back up,” Susan ordered. “Why’ve you got a captain and a quartermaster and two secretaries to begin with?” 

Dean looked to Roswitha, so Roswitha shrugged and began to explain. Dean had called her captain because she was sort of their defacto leader. Then Roswitha had felt (leaving out that Professor Snape had pointed it out to her) that being the only leader was unfair to everyone else. Hermione had come up with the title of quartermaster because of pirates. They invented the office of secretaries because Hermione and Seamus took notes for them whenever they were having meetings of just them. 

The Slytherins had arrived mid-explanation, and Draco had prompted Roswitha to start over -- she refused until the Ravenclaws shuffled in just a few minutes later. But now Millicent asked, “Wait, did you really keep notes on…” then she lowered her voice and looked around. 

Whoever was closest slid the compartment doors shut and a round of wands raised to cast _muffuliatos_ and other silencing charms. When all was said and done, Milicent continued, “Did you really take notes on how to steal the Philosopher’s Stone? What if you had gotten caught?”

“I wrote all of mine in Irish,” said Seamus, with a shrung. “Not many people read that, and even if people use a translation charm, they have to have a basis for translation. Since not many people read or write Irish anymore, even inside of Ireland, I figured it was safe.”

“And I wrote mine in Greek,” said Hermione, nibbling her lip. “I figured while more people can translate that I could figure out how to destroy it before they finished translation.” 

There was a beat before Anthony Goldstein piped up, “Can I read your notes?” 

Hermione and Seamus shuffled around so they could show Anthony, and anyone else interested, their notes on the stone heist.

Justin Finch-Fletchley tapped his chin. “I distinctly recall there was a large schematic entitled ‘Heist Plans.’ What happened to that?”

Roswitha scrunched up her nose -- she hadn’t seen the schematic after going down to steal the stone. She turned to Dean. “What _did _happen to it?”

Dean shrugged. “Gave it a viking funeral. I played the bugle while Seamus lit it on fire.” 

“You can play the bugle?” Roswitha asked, a little surprised. 

“I can play ‘Taps’ on the bugle,” Dean clarified. “I learnt for boy scouts.” 

“Go back to the bit about having a captain and quartermaster, please,” said Susan, a frown set into her mouth as she thought. “Do you really think you’ll need the offices still, given that, ah, your quest finished up some months ago?” 

Roswitha thought about it for a moment and then shrugged. “Probably not, but it was mostly unserious anyway.”

“As much as I don’t like to call anyone captain,” Sophie chimed in, “Ros really is our natural leader. And she and Dean work really well together to, oh, I dunno, like when Ron and Hermione had their fight last year. Dean and Ros got them to talk to one another and work it out.”

“And Ros makes sure we all feel equal,” said Fay, nodding along with Sophie. “She’s made that very clear.” 

“Does it matter?” Ernie MacMillian pipped up from where he had previously been quiet. “I mean, it sounds like you’re having fun, but we are twelve after all.” 

Neville grinned at this, and before anyone else could say anything, he replied, “Someone wise once told me we won’t be twelve forever. I think all Ros wanted to do, and all we want to do for now is practice for when we get older. After all, we’ll be running things eventually, won’t we? So, we should learn to work together, and that means having someone or someones at the front of the heat leading the whole pack.” 

The whole compartment paused at this pronouncement and turned to stare at Neville. Under everyone’s eyes he turned bright red -- the color only deepened as the other Gryffindors leaned over and thumped him on the back, saying things like, “Cheers,” or “Brilliant, Neville.” 

“It sounds very Hufflepuff to me,” said Roger Malone, elbowing Ernie in the side. “Working together and all that.” 

“But voting for others,” said Daphne Greengrass, rolling her nose. “How does it work?” 

An hour slipped on while others explained what they had done and how the order of things usually went. First came a nomination, accepting a nomination, then the vote, which would be decided by a simple majority. The person being voted on usually abstained. Then the other houses decided that they wanted to try it and so began a round of nominating, accepting and then voting. By the end of it all, everyone’s stomachs were beginning to rumble, so everyone began to bring out lunch. 

It turned out that even if they had not been there for Roswitha’s magic basket, they had heard of it last year, and it seemed that almost everyone had brought something to share. 

“We ought to do this more often,” said Roswitha as she unpacked the fried chicken Bits had made, the several bottles of pumpkin juice, and some deserts. 

“Organize our fellows?” Ron asked. He frowned a little as Draco nudged him aside to sit next to Roswitha. 

“No, get together,” said Roswitha. “Draco, ask.”

Draco huffed. “Please-may-I-have-this-seat-Ron?” 

Ron, bemused, moved to the side.

“I did like the party we had last year,” said Pansy. 

“And it is nice to see Parvati more than when we share classes,” said Padma from where she sat next to her twin. “Other times there’s just so much homework and things that it gets away from us.”

“Not to be a Debbie Downer,” said Megan Jones, as she passed around a plate of deviled eggs. “But it seems a bit much to have regular parties. And isn’t that why we have the clubhouse, to get together more?” 

Her friend, Sally-Anne, pinched her affectionately. “Why can’t we have parties every week?” 

“Hmm, maybe Megan’s right,” said Lavender, nodding. “I mean, it stops being a party if you do it all the time. What were you thinking, Ros?”

Roswitha licked her lips. “I’m not quite sure. Let me think on it some more.” 

Everyone seemed alright with that. Dean said he would write his mum about the patches and ask how much they cost, and after that, everyone began creating side pockets of conversation about this and that, eating and sharing food. They only paused when the doors slid open and Percy, Penelope and two other prefects stood at the doors. 

Percy glared at Roswitha. “Put it back,” he told her.

“Perce, we’re in the middle of lunch,” said Roswitha. 

“Where’d all this food come from?” one of the other prefects asked. 

“We brought it to share,” said Dean, leveling a look at the prefect. “Is that a crime now?” 

The prefect shook his head. “Can I have some?” 

Wayne Hopkins passed him a plate full of food. 

Percy began to turn an interesting color, somewhere between red and purple. 

“Percy, I will put it back, just closer to when we get to the station, alright?” said Roswitha, fearing for his health. “Just take a deep breath before you have a stroke, please?” 

Percy inhaled for a full thirty seconds, and Roswitha wasn’t sure if he would breath fire when he let it all out. “Fine,” he said after a moment. “But, please, please do not make any trouble on this trip.” 

Roswitha saluted him. “Scouts Honor.” 

“You weren’t a scout,” said Dean as he nibbled his chicken. 

“You were; I’m borrowing some of your honor.” 

Ron had made up a plate for his brother and pushed it into Percy’s hands. Mandy Brocklehurt did the same for Penelope, and Vincent Crabbe pushed a plate of food into the hands of the last prefect. “You’re bribed,” said Vincent. “Go away now.”

“Vinnie,” said Millicent slapping her hand over her eyes. 

“Please,” added Vincent, at the sign of her distress. 

The prefect he address shrugged and went away taking a bite from the fried chicken. Percy only sighed and followed after, calming down a little when Penelope took his arm. 

“We should eat quickly,” Ron remarked as he sat back down. “When word gets out, everyone’s going to want to stop by to take something.”

And with that, everyone tucked in. 

Thankfully, there were not too many people who came by between then and when people came by asking for any other food they might have had. Ginny was the first who found them, along with her friend Luna. Ron, despite having given the warning, couldn’t resist their wide, doe eyes -- nor could many of the others. 

After that, they left out what they wanted to spare, and packed away what they did not. It was one thing, they all said, to share amongst themselves, or to bribe prefects, or to feed doe eyed first years, but it was quite another to give food to anyone who came by who felt like asking for it. 

_Come to think of it_, thought Roswitha. _Why doesn’t the Express provide lunch_? Some families might not know how long the journey would be and wouldn’t think about it. Others might think there would be something for purchase -- which there was, and even having had lunch together, everyone still bought a little something or two from the candy trolley that they could stash away in their dorms. Roswitha felt she did not need a stash of fried chicken, however, nor was it her favorite food, so she left all of hers out. The pumpkin juice had been drunk down thoroughly, and admittedly, she kept some of the deserts for herself as a study treat. 

_I might have to ask Dumbledore about this_, she still thought to herself as people came by to take a piece of chicken or a deviled egg or some potato salad or anything else that remained. 

After all the food disappeared and the first years dissembled (some to take walks or go to the bathroom or just to break off from the larger group), Roswitha asked the train to put the compartments back as they had been. 

Draco pulled her in to their original one and said, “I’ve been wanting to ask you, do you know why my father’s gone by Grimmauld Place?”

Roswitha blinked. “What, you mean, without you?” 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Of course I mean without me! If I was with him, I would know.” 

“Well, I haven’t seen him come around,” said Roswitha as she sat down. 

Ron was in the process of pulling out his chess set while Pansy and Parvati played wand-stone-grave to determine who would match him. “Maybe he’s having clandestine meetings.” 

“Don’t suggest that,” said Pansy, firmly, looking up from her choose of grave to Parvarti’s stone, mouth set in a firm frown. “Even as a joke.”

“I don’t mean like an affair,” said Ron, wrinkling his nose. “I wouldn’t suggest that about anybody’s parents, not even yours, Malfoy. I just mean, Mr. Black and Mr. Malfoy and Professor Snape have run in the same circles for years, yeah? Maybe they have a club or something.” 

Roswitha slapped a hand over her eyes. “Ron, quite possibly that’s a _worse_ suggestion.” 

Ron opened his mouth to question why, but then shut it with a click. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean like that, either.” 

“How is it,” Draco asked, caught between rolling his eyes and fury, “you can see ten moves ahead on a chess board but not two feet in front of your mouth?” 

For once, Ron didn’t protest the insult. 

Hermione, Dean, and Justin, who had joined them when the other Hufflepuffs had gone off to mingle, all frowned. “I don’t understand,” said Hermione. “But I take it we’re not talking about a supper club?” 

Draco and Pansy both huffed. 

Roswitha only shrugged. “Look, I’ll tell you, but really, this isn’t something you talk about. I’m only saying it, so we don’t have to talk about it further, alright?”

Hermione and Dean nodded. 

“Father — Professor Snape to you — and Cousin Lucius were both suspected of Death Eater activity after the last war,” said Roswitha, evenly. She swallowed hard. “If Pappa hadn’t washed up in Le Havre, he probably would have been too. Our family’s always been considered dark and marauding — comes with being part of two invasions, I suppose. In any case, nothing was ever proven, and I know Father would never do that sort of thing today. I doubt he did it willingly even when he was young.” 

“That’s awful,” Hermione croaked.

“It is,” Pansy agreed. 

“But it’s just something we don’t talk about,” said Draco firmly.

Their talk of how Father had changed over the years flashed into her mind as Dean and Hermione drew their conclusions and swore their secrecy. Maybe he _could_ have been capable of it, once upon a time. But he had loved a muggle-born girl then — would he really want to hurt all muggles and muggle-born people, when he loved one so fiercely? The question made Roswitha’s head spin.

“As for why Lucius was coming by the House,” said Roswitha, frowning, putting down the thoughts of her father.. “I couldn’t possibly know. Maybe it was for curse breaking reasons — Pappa doesn’t like me to be involved in that. Potions is one thing, but cursebreaking can take on a _lot_ of magic. Kill you if you do it wrong.” 

“Hmph,” said Pansy as she watched Parvati and Ron’s game unfold. “That does sound interesting. Do you think you could introduce your Pappa and I so we could discuss it? Around fifth year when we do career advising that is?”

“Sure,” said Roswitha, shrugging. “Change of topic?”

Justin picked up the thred of conversation there. “I picked up a new Dungeons and Dragons book over the supper — it gave me new ideas for quests, er, practice quests.”

Draco, who had leveled a glare at their games being called quests, eased up. “That should be good fun. But tell me, why would someone keep a dragon in a dungeon? Surely, it would suffocate.” 

Justin talked about the series of games and novels in the muggle world, and how the dragons and dungeons were usually kept separate. He said, however, that he had heard that Gringotts did keep dragons in their caverns, and wasn’t that quite like a dungeon?

They debated on for a while about this, and when the talk began to die down, Roswitha asked, “Say, if someone composed an original being out of unoriginal parts and brought it to life, does that count as necromancy?” 

That conversation lasted a full hour before a prefect came by to remind them to change into their school robes if they hadn’t already. When someone asked why, Roswitha had asked, Dean waved about his copy of _Dracula _and Roswitha brought out her copy of _Frankenstein_ which she lost to Pansy immediately. Before they could get lost in another argument, Parvati kicked the boys out so they would go and get their robes. Pansy left too, _Frankenstein_ still in hand, promising to return so she could change. 

Roswitha pulled on her plain, grey skirt, white blouse, grey cardigan, and black socks that went well above her knee, before she pulled on her robes with the new patch on the sleeve and a red and gold striped tie. She sat down again, deciding to plait several braids, complete with beads before twining them together in a woven knot, which would get the hair out of her face without pulling it all back. Hermione left her robe and one of the patches out while she helped Roswitha make braids and bead her hair. When Pansy returned, uniform in hand, she too abandoned it, in favor of plaiting Roswitha’s hair. 

“What are you thinking about?” Hermione asked. “You have that dreamy far away look.”

Roswitha had been a touch far away — the other girls playing with her hair was quite relaxing. “I was thinking about secrets,” Roswitha said, for it was the truth. 

“Do you have a secret then?” Pansy asked, as Parvati, Padma, and Lavender entered, followed swiftly by Ginny and Luna. 

“Oooh, secrets!” said Lavendar as she hung up her uniform, neatly compiled on a hanger. 

Roswitha nodded, for she did have a secret that was all her own. “I’m not supposed to tell — Pappa said not to.” 

“Well, that’s no fun,” said Parvati, rolling her eyes. She nudged Hermione out of the way so she and Pansy could start pinning back the plaits. 

“In fairness,” said Roswitha, shrugging, “it is something that could effect my reputation a little.” 

Pansy squinted at this, and the statement even stopped Daphne in her tracks as she, too, came in to change. Millicent moved Daphne along though, which allowed Roswitha to explain, “Nothing like that — I’m not even sure I want to date, yes, much less have sex.” 

“Don’t scare us like that, then,” said Parvati, flicking her. “It’s not about your mum is it?”

Roswitha shook her head. “At least, not that I know of.”

“You never talk about your Mum,” Hermione observed as she took up her robe and began lining up the patch where she wanted it. 

“There’s not much I know,” said Roswitha, sighing. “Her name was Lilith Hansen — she was German, she had me when she was twenty. She had red hair and hazel eyes like mine. I think she liked Led Zepplin, she used to sing me one of their songs as a lullaby.” 

Luna hummed a little bit as she reached down to replace her sneakers over her school socks. “Can we guess the secret?”

Pappa would be furious — Father would be worse. Perhaps even Professor Dumbledore would be upset with her. But most everyone who knew her knew her character, and she didn’t see how talking to snakes was such a tremendous secret to keep anyway — Dark Lords notwithstanding. “Alright,” said Roswitha. “Twenty questions only though. And you have to keep it a secret if you figure it out. Hermione, let me get my sewing kit, and I’ll show you how.” 

The other girls in their year, and some first years as well, came into their compartment to change and joined in on the guessing. The compartment expanded out, allowing everyone to fit as they were changing and moving around. Roswitha entertained questions, answering them truthfully as people guessed, while envisioning that the boys’ compartment, wherever they were on the train would expand as well to fit them. The girls definitely asked more than twenty questions total, but not twenty per each (at least, Roswitha thought so), and they still had not figured out that she could talk to snakes by the end of the train ride. 

As the train pulled to a stop, they all split up and regrouped by house, ready to begin the new year. 


	3. The School Curse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this a few days late, because life, but it's over 18,000 words long, so hopefully that makes up for some things.

After seeing Ginny and Luna off to Hagrid, the 98 Pride began to follow after the other students who walked off of the train platform toward sets of carriages, which appeared not to be pulled by anything at all -- at least to Roswitha. Sophie, Neville and Parvati both stopped short at the sight of the carriages. 

“What sort of horses are those?” Sophie asked, offering her hand out to let them sniff her. Sophie then ran her hand across the neck of a horse -- or at least it looked like she was. “They didn’t draw the carriages back last year.” 

“What horses?” Ron asked, as he stood next to the carriage and offered Hermione a hand in. “I don’t see any.”

A chorus of me neither’s rose up. At the sight of Sophie patting the horse, though, Neville came a bit closer and offered it a carrot he had had in his pocket. The carrot slowly disappeared from Neville’s hand, and the rest of them offered up a feeling of awe. 

“They’re black,” said Parvati as she too came to pet it, “and they sort of look underfed, like you can see all their bones.” 

A seventh year prefect began to jog toward them waving his arms. “Don’t touch them!” 

“What’s the matter?” Roswitha asked.

“Thestrals are meat eaters!” said the seventh year. “You don’t offer out a hand to them!”

Roswitha rolled her eyes. “Dogs are meat eaters. So are actual horses for that matter!”

“Knowing Hagrid, he’s probably fed them well,” said Seamus. He turned his attention to the matter of the carriage. “D’you think all ten of us will fit?”

“Six at most,” said Hermione surveying the seats. 

“Boys and girls then, Captain?” Dean asked. 

The seventh year began to turn a little red. “Are any of you listening to what I’m saying?” he asked. 

Roswitha waved him off. “Yes, yes, don’t touch the mostly ordinary horse.”

“Ordinary horse? It has bat wings!” 

Those who couldn’t see the thestral turned to those that could. “They do?” Fay asked. “You left that bit out.” 

Parvati flushed. “Well, they’re sort of hard to see when they’re tucked away. Like a bird.” She, Sophie and Neville left the thestral alone and came to join the others. 

Ron handed the girls up into the carriage, before the boys went off to find a carriage of their own. The seventh year huffed and stormed off after they had finished ignoring him. 

“I’ve never been on a carriage ride drawn by thestrals before,” said Roswitha, feeling a little excited. 

None of the other girls had either (it didn’t seem like an ordinary thing!) so they chatted about other carriage rides they had had before they began moving. The ride ended up being a little bumpy, but seemed almost as fast as what riding in a slow moving car would be like, like the ride had been last year. They did manage to cover a lot of ground, at least, as they rode up to the castle ahead of the boats, which they saw just beginning to glide over the water as they neared the castle gates. 

Professor McGonagall met them at the door and ushered them all into the great hall. The second years found a spot all together at the Gryffindor House table just above where the first years would come and sit. When the last student entered, the doors to the Great Hall closed as to allow a moment of surprise for the first years. 

There was a moment where no one spoke after the doors closed. Then, Seamus leaned into the group and asked, “Does anyone have any cards?” 

The ten of them snickered, only to be shushed by a third year. 

Roswitha felt a pair of eyes on her and turned to the staff table where she found Professor Snape frowning at her. Or perhaps, he was frowning at the impossibly blond man to his right that appeared to hold a conversation with the air -- Professor Snape certainly wasn’t listening. SInce the blond man was the only new person at the staff table, Roswitha had to assume that he was Gilderoy Lockhart, their new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor. 

Hermione leaned over and murmured, “He’s even more handsome than his photo.” 

Roswitha considered Professor Lockhart in this regard. After a moment, she figured she was like Maj. Thomas -- her taste did not run toward blonds. She went to tell Hermione this, but at that moment, Professor McGonagall entered the room with the gaggle of first years. As the first one approached they all waited on baited breath while the hat made its ruminations. Thankfully, they did not have to wait for long as only thirty seconds after the hat landed on the first year’s head did it shout, “RAVENCLAW!”

Everyone clapped, though all of Ravenclaw leapt to their feet cheering. 

Roswitha leaned in, and both Hermione and Fay did as well. “You’d think it was good luck to get the first one of the year.”

The two girls snickered. 

“We’ll cheer louder when we get our first firstie,” said Fay, and they all turned back to watch the next one get sorted. 

Sure enough, when the hat declared Colin Creevy a Gryffindor, they leapt to their feet and cheered. Other members of the house banged their fists on the table or stomped their feet, but they were the loudest so far. Of course, the next first year sorted happened to be a Slytherin, and the whole house saw Gryffindor’s enthusiasm as a challenge, as they rose up, shouting even more loudly than had the Gryffindors. 

Ravenclaw was next and they grew even louder, especially as they gained two new house members in a row. Then Hufflepuff roared, back to Slytherin, then to Gryffindor again, hooting and hollering. Roswitha felt sure that at any moment Dumbledore or another professor would try to reign them in. But as long as they stopped in time for Professor McGonagall to read the next name, the professor looked as if they were amused by the antics of the whole thing. 

Ginny Weasley was the last of her year to sort, and she came into Gryffindor house with a storm of cheers and applause. Ginny took a seat closest to the second years as it meant she could sit next to Ron. Ron huffed a little, but gave Ginny a one armed hug and rubbed her back. 

Professor Dumbledore, in splendid purple robes with intricate constellations charmed onto them, rose from his chair. The hall fell silent.

“Welcome, welcome, one and all to another year at Hogwarts!” said Professor Dumbledore. “I am certain you are all eager to hear the start of term announcements.” Then Dumbledore paused, and a smile broke out across his face. “But I am sure you are more eager to eat after such a long train ride. So! Let the start of term feast begin!”

Everyone burst into applause once more as food appeared on the table. 

“That Dumbledore,” Roswitha heard Fred say as she began to serve herself some supper. 

“What a joker,” added George. 

Percy rolled his eyes at them. “Perhaps the two of you might learn from him that a short joke is a good joke.”

“Are you saying our jokes go on too long?” Fred asked, utterly perplexed by this turn of conversation.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying,” Percy replied before taking a bite of food so that he might lead his brothers to their ruminations. 

Katie Bell, who sat a few seats down from Ros, tugged on her sleeve saying, “I like your patch, Roswitha. What’s that for?” 

“Oh, erm.” Roswitha flushed. It was one thing to explain to her other friends about what being Captain meant, but explaining to an upper year just felt silly. 

“It’s ‘cause she’s captain of our year,” said Dean, cutting in easily. “Roswitha’s a good leader -- she’s so good she insisted on other representation, so I’m quartermaster and Hermione and Seamus are secretary.” 

“How nice!” Katie and the girl sitting next to her smiled. “I wonder if we can get patches for Quidditch. Oliver gets a badge, but the rest of the team isn’t really acknowledged off the field.”

“Well, that could be a good thing,” said Katie’s friend. “After all, there are those who try very unsporting things because they want to win at Quidditch. 

Katie considered this as she chewed over a piece of beef, nodding along as her friend spoke. “I s’ppose a cool patch isn’t worth getting something put in my potions during class. Still, I get them for concerts and things, and I’ve always really liked the ones on my dad’s flight jacket.”

Dean perked up at that. “Are you air force?” 

That started them off chatting away about the armed forces, a conversation no one around could quite keep up with. Down the table, Roswitha thought she saw Angelina putting her head together with Wood and they were mumbling about something, probably patches for Quidditch to go on their robes. Percy, sat next to his boyfriend, continually sighed and rolled his eyes at the conversation, so the likelihood of it being about patches went up with every sigh. Roswitha thought she saw Oliver reach over and pinch Percy’s side, but as neither boy really reacted, she couldn’t say for certain. 

To her left, the new fifth year prefects had engaged the first years in conversation over what they had to look forward to now that they were at Hogwarts. Slowly, the thought spilled over into the second years, who began to share what they were most looking forward to now that the school year had begun. 

“What about you, Roswitha?” Ginny asked from the other side of the table. “What are you looking forward to?” 

Roswitha shrugged. “A quiet year of learning, I suppose.” 

Ron outright laughed at her. “What sort of answer is that?” he asked, throwing a dinner roll at her.

Roswitha laughed as well, caught the dinner roll and threw it back. “An honest one. And don’t forget, I’m a seeker -- I’m good at catching things.” 

The second years all grew contemplative -- then as one, they picked up their dinner rolls, and before anyone (mostly Percy) could object, they tossed them at her. Roswitha, laughing, unable to catch all ten, grabbed as many as she could, and let the rest pelt her. 

When supper had transitioned to pudding and everyone had eaten their fill, Dumbledore rose to the school dias again, commanding the attention of the whole hall. “And now that we have all had our fill, I would like to make a few start of term remarks.” Professor Dumbledore took a roll of parchment from his sleeve and then let it unfurl dramatically. Most people laughed at this, but Professors Snape and McGonagall rolled their eyes at the headmaster’s antics. Professor Dumbledore then read off the list of items newly banned by Mr. Filch, summarizing where he could. 

Then, once he had rolled up his parchment, he said, “We also have a new professor for defense against the dark arts, this year. Please give a warm welcome to Professor Gilderoy Lockhart.” As everyone in the hall applauded, Professor Lockhart rose, his blond tresses glinting in the candle light. It appeared, for a moment, that he opened his mouth to say something, but Professor Dumbledore continued on with his speech. “Though she is not present with us tonight, you may also see Dr. Newton Scamander in our halls this year, as she will be helping Professor Kettleburn with Care of Magical Creatures classes as Professor Kettleburn eases into retirement.”

Amid wild applause, as _everyone_, even the first years, knew who Newton Scamander was, Professor Lockhart also sat back down. 

“And with that, I will bid you all a good evening to unpack and rest. Classes begin tomorrow -- and you will receive your timetables at breakfast. But first shall we have the school song?”

There were more than a few no’s, but the cheers overruled them. They all sang the school song together, the ridiculous lyrics flowing off Roswitha’s tongue and making her smile. The second years, as well as the rest of Gryffindor stayed seated while the fifth year prefects rounded up the first years and guided them out of the great hall. Then, it was like fighting a tidal wave almost, but the 98 Pride managed to hold on to one another and come together as the wave of students died down.

“Charlie’s gonna be green,” said Ron, with a grin as they walked to the common room. “Not only did we meet Dr. Scamander, she’s going to be teaching here this year.” 

“Is he a big fan?” Roswitha asked.

Ron’s grin only wided. “Mate, Charlie likes dragons so much, he went to live with them on a preserve in Romania. It’s supposed to be some sort of state secret, but supposedly, Scamander was able to train Ukranian Iron Bellies during World War I. Yeah, Charlie’s a fan.” 

“Train them to do what?” Lavender asked, her eyes going wide. 

“To ride,” said Ron, dramatically. 

All of them ‘oooh’ed in awe. 

“I wonder if we can watch on the Care of Magical Creature’s class?” said Sophie, tapping her chin. “I mean, we have to decide which electives we’ll take next year. It wouldn’t hurt to get an idea of what they’re about would it?” 

“Do any of your brothers take care, Ron?” Hermione asked. 

“Not as much as our mother would like,” said Ron. 

Several of them tittered at the joke, but Hermione rolled his eyes.

Ron rolled them back, grinning. “Yes, I think Fred and George do. I can ask them when they have it. Of course, we might have class at the same time they do.” 

Hermione shrugged. “Well, we can always ask the other years as well. I won’t mind sitting in on other lectures. Say, maybe we should ask McGonagall about sitting in on the classes we might want to take next year? Don’t groan, just occasionally, I mean. To see if we like them.” 

Roswitha shrugged at this. “It sounds like it could be a good idea, to maybe sit in on one or two classes. But if Professor McGonagall’s anything like Professor Snape, she might say something about not getting ahead of yourself.”

“Couldn’t hurt to try,” said Hermione returning her own shrug. 

They made it up to Benvegnuda’s portrait where Percy loitered outside as others came up so he could give them the password, which, to their delight, was pride. 

From there, they had to split up the group to head up to their different dorms. To all the girls’ delight, their room was set up as it had been last year, and they discussed quickly about any changes they wanted to make to their agreement. Sophie and Lavender agreed to switch bathroom times, and Roswitha unshrunk her fainting couch to see if they would like as an addition to their dorm. It fit rather well in front of the fireplace, at the girls agreed to try it out to see if it would get in the way or act as a tripping hazard. 

They chatted as they unpacked and hung up their robes, stacked their books on their desks, and added knick knacks around the place. Roswitha staid up a little bit, and began to write a letter to her father, as she talked with the other girls, and Lavender brought out a copy of _Jane Eyre_. “It was with the other books when I bought _Dracula_. I figured we’ve all read that one, but we could start this one if that’s alright?” 

The all agreed and Roswitha wrapped up her letter to Pappa as Lavender began to read, “There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.”

As term began on a Wednesday, it seemed they would have it easy for the first few days.

As such, Roswitha simply got up earlier than normal and went down to the common room on Wednesday morning to meditate in front of the fireplace before the others came down to go running with her.

_Is something the matter?_ asked the soft voice of Hogwarts as Roswitha focused on her breathing and imagined a white canvas in her mind as she did when she practice occlumency.

_Can’t I say hello?_ Roswitha asked, as she tried to imagine the field of heather that spread out just beyond the Hogwarts lawn.

Hogwarts laughed, and the laugh was like a warm breeze over the landscape of Roswitha’s mind, helping paint a grey blue sky against the field of purple stalks. _Welcome home, sweet childe,_ said Hogwarts.

Something nudged her side in a way that almost make Roswitha give a ticklish giggle. She opened one eye and found Dean in front of her, the quidditch team, Ron and Sophie all yawning as they stretched a little and tried to warm up for the run.

After they finished conditioning, Wood cornered the team to apologize, but their normal Quidditch time wasn’t going to work anymore. “I’ve got a double transfiguration on Thursday mornings,” he said. “And McGonagall likes me and Quidditch, but not us together enough to excuse me from my NEWT classes for the whole year.” 

Everyone huffed. 

“I guess that means Friday mornings, then?” Fred and George asked. 

“Erm,” said Roswitha, raising her hand. “I have occlumency lessons with Professor Dumbledore on Friday mornings. Sorry.” 

Everyone looked at her wide eyed. 

Then Oliver laughed. “Of course yer _twelve_ and learning _mind magic._ Just another day as Roswitha Black, aye?”

Roswitha flushed. “I read a book on it before I came to Hogwarts, and Professor Dumbledore found out I had learned unsafe practices, so he felt he had to correct me. Mostly we end up discussing things, and he sets me meditation exercises. Occasionally I get to feed his phoenix treats and get yelled at by French alchemists.” 

Angelina wrinkled her nose. “You know, if he’s going to do that for you, he really ought to offer it as an extra class for everyone.” 

“I’ll ask him during our lesson,” said Roswitha, shrugging. “But can we try Friday afternoons for Quidditch? That way we have Friday morning for homework--”

“And sleep,” said the Weasleys

“And sleep,” Roswitha added. “And I don’t show up to etiquette lessons smelling like they’ll want to kick me out.”

Oliver considered this for a moment, judging all of them. Everyone looked a little hopeful at the thought of sleeping in on Fridays, and after his moment, Oliver caved. “Alright, practice will be Fridays. I’ll book the pitch.”

The Quidditch team cheered. 

Roswitha didn’t know why, precisely, as she still got up and ran every morning, and most mornings the other members of the Quidditch team joined her. Like the very next day after they had had this conversation, for instance. Perhaps it was simply the idea that they didn’t have classes on Friday, so everyone wanted to do as little as possible on the day if they could, and they _could_ sleep in if they wanted to. If they had to practice that day, so be it — it could be fun if it wasn’t at seven in the morning as it had been last year. 

Her first Charms class passed with a breeze, as Professor Flitwick began to cover the disarming charm with them. Since they had lacked a defense professor at the end of last year, Pappa and Father had set her the task of finding five spells she could use to defend herself and write eight inches on each spell. She had found the disarming charm in a book Father recommended, and had practiced it several times over the summer. Roswitha explained the assignment after class when Professor Flitwick looked perplexed that several of the Gryffindors had already practiced the charm. 

“Doing magic over the summer, forshame, Miss Black,” said Professor Flitwick, wagging a finger at her, in a playful tone.

“But just for school, Professor,” said Roswitha, ducking her head in mock shame. “And with my parents’ permission, I promise.”

“And how is Regulus?” Professor Flitwick asked. “I would ask how Severus is, but we just saw him at breakfast!”

“He’s very well Professor,” said Roswitha. She wrinkled her nose. “He still commutes to France for work, though.”

Professor Flitwick laughed. “Well, you must get your wand work from him. Regulus was always quite good at charms -- and I hear he became a curse breaker.”

Roswitha smiled and nodded. “He did! I think you may see him at a quidditch match or two this year, but if you’re really curious, I could always give you our address so you may write?” 

“I would be delighted, Miss Black. And I must suggest to Albus that we make your fathers’ assignment standard for Defense Against the Dark Arts. As it is, we don’t have the same professor every year, we might as well have the same homework.” 

Roswitha, who had been digging out her fountain pen and a spare bit of parchment, looked up. “A different professor _every _year?” she asked. 

“My dear girl,” said Professor Flitwick, pursing his lips. “Have you not heard about the curse on the position?” 

Roswitha shook her head.

“Likely not a _real_ curse,” said Professor Flitwick, with a conspiratorial whisper. “But, I came on to the Hogwarts Staff nearly sixty years ago, and every year I’ve been here, there’s not been a defense professor to last more than a year.” 

Roswitha blinked rapidly. “I thought perhaps Professor Quirrel was replacing someone who had retired, but I guess that wasn’t the case, was it?”

“I am afraid not, Miss Black,” said Professor Flitwick, shaking his head. “And given the position’s reputation, there are those who think it is a real curse and refuse to stay on for more than a year. There has been a few people who had a bad run of things.” Professor Flitwick took on a grim frown as he thought about it, but then turned back with a smile. “Never you mind, Miss Black. It’s nothing for a second year to concern themselves with. Perhaps if you become a curse breaker like your father, you might lend us a hand, though!” 

“Perhaps,” said Roswitha with a chuckle. She scribbled out their address and passed the piece of paper to Flitwick before departing the class. Roswitha did make a mental note to ask Dumbledore about it though -- and that list had become so numerous, she ended up writing it down so she did not forget anything. 

She arrived at Professor Dumbledore’s just after breakfast had concluded and found him writing a letter. 

“Ah, Roswitha,” he said, beckoning to her. “Please come in, I’ll be just a moment.” 

Roswitha nodded and went to stroke Fawkes while he finished writing. Fawkes nibbled her fingers as she brought them close to his mouth, subtly begging for fish. “I suppose you can smell it?” she asked as she took a little fish from that morning’s breakfast and held it out for him. “I’m spoiling you, aren’t it?”

Fawkes only trilled as he guzzled down the fish. 

“He does like you much more than others,” said Professor Dumbledore, as he finished off his letter with a sweeping signature. 

“My wand has a phoenix feather core,” said Roswitha, folding up her handkerchief as Fawkes finished. “Maybe that has something to do with it.”

Dumbledore looked her up and down. “Do you really?” 

Roswitha nodded. “Eleven inches, holly -- I, erm, purchased it a little sooner than I ought to have, so you may not have known about it, if it gets reported.” 

“Two years too early?” Dumbledore asked with a chuckle, as Roswitha flushed. “Peace, dear girl, I’m only teasing. As it happens, who buys what wand does not get reported anyway. Besides that, you were new to our world then, and likely did not see the importance of those rules, nor did you have anyone to guide you.” He waved a hand at the chair in front of his desk, and Roswitha came over to sit. 

While Dumbledore poured her a cup of tea, Roswitha asked, “Why is it important that people not get their wands until eleven, if I can ask?”

“You most certainly may,” he replied, passing her a cup. “It is little remarked upon, but on average, eleven is the age when a child’s magical core begins to regularly expand, allowing them to learn how to focus their magic. Incidentally, this is why, even if you never learned any spells or never bought a wand, why your accidental magic tends to go away around age eleven. On average, at least. Magical core growth begins to stagnate around age seventeen, which is why that is the age of majority. You are lucky that your core was able to handle you doing regular wand work, as well as taking on magical burdens such as a magical house and house elves.”

“If I hadn’t been able to take on such a burden?” Roswitha asked. 

Professor Dumbledore took a long draught of tea. “It is possible,” he said when he swallowed, “that you might have died, or damaged your core so that you wouldn’t have been able to do magic, or driven yourself mad -- your mind and your magic are very connected you know.”

“No, sir, I didn’t,” said Roswitha, feeling a little queasy. 

“Peace, dear girl,” said Professor Dumbledore, smiling at her. “It did work out for the best. You will be pleased to know your circumstance is an unlikely one, I think, for if you had not been operating inside of Grimmauld Place, you likely would not have been able to go undetected for so long. Now then, have you been practicing your meditations?”

Roswitha nodded, bringing forth the notes she had kept on her occlumency. They talked at length for their normal time, about how to practice her mental protections and some greater theory about the mind.

Toward the end of their lesson, Roswitha guided the conversation around to the curse on the defense position.

“And who told you about that?” Professor Dumbledore asked, his eyes twinkling. 

“Professor Flitwick,” said Roswitha, giving a delicate shrug. “I mentioned to him a defense assignment my fathers set for me in lieu of official homework, and we got to talking about it.” 

Professor Dumbledore chuckled. “Well, it is more trouble for me than it is for you, dear girl, I promise. We are running out of talented candidates who do not believe that such a curse could exist. I even tried to entice Regulus into the position but he wouldn’t bite.”

Roswitha considered the idea and thought her father would make a capital defense teacher. “I could talk to him for you, if you like.” 

Dumbledore waved her off though. “Put it from your mind, dear girl. And remember, you can learn something even from a bad teacher. You need to worry about asking after Miss Johnson’s query either — she has already inquired through Professor McGonagall.”

“And will you allow it, sir?” Roswitha asked. “If I’m allowed to inquire.” 

“Of course, dear girl. And I will allow it -- provided that the student can get parental permission and want to give up a part of their Friday mornings to listen to me lecture.” 

Roswitha laughed. Parental permission would be hard won on its own, but giving up Friday mornings? “Sir, has anyone ever told you that you can be a little vicious when you want to be?” 

Professor Dumbledore smiled and looked over his half-moon glasses at her. “Whatever do you mean?” 

Roswitha laughed again, and found she couldn’t stop for a minute or two. When she could, Professor Dumbledore shooed her away from their lesson, and Roswita went, any other questions she had forgotten.

When Roswitha left, she didn’t see as Professor Dumbledore pulled out a piece of his own parchment and began to write a new letter addressed to one, “Garrick Ollivander,” asking about a wand, phoenix feather, holly, eleven inches. 

Roswitha’s first weekend at Hogwarts went by uncomplicated. She did what homework had been assigned so far, played with her friends, and practiced quidditch with her teammates. Draco even sought her out so they could have a one-on-one quest, and Roswitha got letters from her Pappa and Narcissa. Pappa had replied to her earlier letter, and asked about how she was settling in for the year. Narcissa asked for a detailed description of her patch, as she wanted to get some for the Slytherins and it would look best if, “they matched, at least in the details of the size and script.” Roswitha described it as best she could, and Dean even drew out a picture. 

By the time Monday rolled around, Roswitha felt good about being back at Hogwarts. 98 Pride had transfiguration first thing on Monday morning with Ravenclaw, but everyone had their essays ready to turn in, and had all practiced the first spell Professor McGonagall assigned them, though they had varying degrees of success. Roswitha had trouble with the spell under Professor McGonagall’s watchful eye and didn’t manage much of a transfiguration at all. Her casting only got worse when McGonagall said, “Miss Black, stay behind please.” 

Neville who sat next to her said, “Cheer up, Vee, we’ll all wait for you.” 

Roswitha flashed him a smile, “Thanks, Kingmaker.” 

Professor McGonagall shooed them all into the hall, though, and then called Roswitha up to her desk. “You seem to be having some difficulty with the practical portion of your transfiguration, Miss Black,” said Professor McGonagal as she removed her spectacles and began to clean them. “But, I find this is typically only when you are in class. Your essays speak of someone who has actually managed the spells you are writing about, and there are others who say they have seen you do first rate transfiguration in your clubhouse or in the common room.” 

All of that was so, so the only thing Roswitha could think to say was, “Yes, Professor,” as she admired the tessering flagstones.

“Not to mention, if you are learning occlumency at a young age, and Professor Dumbledore assures me you _are_ learning, not merely going through the motions, then you are quite magically competent. You have no issues in charms class, so how can I help you to have the same confidence here?” 

Roswitha looked up. “You want to help me?”

Professor McGonagall sighed. “Miss Black, I _am_ your professor after all. The others of your house come to me when they are struggling -- indeed others of other houses can come to me. Aside from that, their motions speak of those who are learning and figuring out how to work the spells. You, however, appear to have practice the motions, but struggle to produce results.” 

“Well, it’s not that I’m struggling,” said Roswitha. 

“But dear girl, you are,” said Professor McGonagall, tsking as she did, in a tone not unlike the one Professor Dumbledore took on in their lessons together. “I am sure you understand the spell work -- as I’ve said your homework certainly reflects it. But if you do not gain some confidence in casting, I’m afraid your exams will not reflect well, including exams like the OWLs in the future. I would like to help you, Roswitha, I would. But I don’t know that I understand the problem, and if you will not admit that there is one, we may not be able to solve this.” 

“I just…” _Just what? _Roswitha wondered as her eyes turned back to the flagstones. Professor McGonagall was _right_. Roswitha never managed the transfigurations in class, but could usually get them later on, with less focus. “May I think about it, Professor?” Roswitha asked. 

“Of course you may, Miss Black,” said Professor McGonagall with a swift nod. “How is Quidditch?”

Here, Roswitha managed to look up again. “Very well -- we’ve had our first practice already and the others are conditioning with me in the morning and sometimes during boxing.” 

McGonagall’s mouth quirked up into the barest smile. “I’m glad of it. I’m eager to hold onto the cup for a few more years, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Roswitha returned her smile. “I’ll do my best, Professor.”

“That’s all I ask, Miss Black. You can run along now, if you’d like.” 

Professor McGonagall waved her away, and Roswitha left the classroom simultaneous letting out a deep breath and relaxing all over.

Neville stood waiting for her. “Everyone else headed over to the club house,” he said. “Since it didn’t seem like you were in trouble and it was McGonagall. You aren’t in trouble are you?” 

Roswitha shook her head, and they began to walk in the direction of the clubhouse. “No, I don’t think so. Professor McGonagall wanted to talk about my spell casting.” 

“Why?” Neville asked, a funny little grin sparking on his face. “You’re the best in our year!”

“Apparently not in transfiguration,” said Roswitha, scrunching up her nose. 

“Well, at least you’re not rubbish at everything like me,” said Neville with a shrug.

Roswitha stopped and took Neville by the sleeve of his robe. “Neville, you’re not rubbish -- you really need to stop saying things like that, or you’ll start to believe them.” 

Neville flushed, then shrugged. “Well, it is true, isn’t it?” 

“Not it isn’t,” Roswitha protested. “You do well in all your classes, and you’re aces at herbology -- that really helped at last year, you know, with the quest. If we hadn’t known what to do we would have been sunk before we started, and it was _you_ who told us what to do.” 

Neville’s flush went deeper. “But I’m not brave, like you, or any of the others.”

“Bravery’s just a matter of circumstance,” said Roswitha, firmly. “I’m not always brave, you know.” 

“You’re plenty brave,” said Neville, rolling his eyes. 

“And you aren’t rubbish,” Roswitha insisted, meeting his eye. “I think you’re pretty great, in fact -- whoever keeps telling you you’re rubbish is lying and wrong.” 

Neville went a little quiet at that. Then he sniffled and Roswitha saw he was crying. 

“Oh Neville, I’m sorry.” Roswitha pulled him in for a hug, and Neville hugged her back tightly. Her buried his face in her shoulder and sobbed for a few moments. Roswitha hugged him and rubbed his back and just let him cry until Neville was ready to pull away. 

“You know,” he said as he took a handkerchief from her. “I’m really glad you have Mr. Black and Professor Snape as your parents. But sometimes… sometimes I really envy you, Vee.” He blew his nose and sniffled for a moment more. “I really wish, as hard as I can, that my parents would get better and take me away from… from…” 

Roswitha hugged him again, feeling positively miserable. She, too, wished he could have parents that loved him with the strength that Pappa and Father loved her. She wished Neville could have all the happiness in the world. At the same time she thought, _Who is hurting my friend and how do I make them stop?_

“Neville,” she asked, “do you need my help?” 

A little miserably, Neville shook his head. “I’ll be alright,” he said after a moment, as he dabbed once more at his face. He blew his nose again, and then held up the handkerchief again, a little horrified. 

“It’s alright,” said Roswitha, casually taking the kerchief from him. “Will you tell me if you need help, King? I want to help you.”

Neville smiled at her, his eyes still watery. “That’s what makes you the best, Vee.” 

Roswitha took him by the hand, and together they started to walk toward the clubhouse. By the time they arrived, there was hardly any sign he had been crying at all. Roswitha decided not to mention it again, and Neville didn’t either as they sat around and began their homework.

To her chagrin, Roswitha saw that Professor McGonagall was right when she transfigured her teacup into an almost perfect little teapot. As Hermione sat next to her humming, “I’m a little teapot,” Roswitha sat back and miserably contemplated her situation. 

Things did improve, briefly. They had potions after lunch, which she always looked forward to, and herbology the next morning seemed to bring Neville around as he raised his hand to answer a question about mandrakes and earned ten house points. The mandrakes themselves were interesting, if loud even with earmuffs on, but once repotted they were fine. Roswitha even got the chance to work with Justin, who asked her questions about the Secret Bowl. They nearly got caught by Professor Sprout, but that only made it more exciting. 

Of course, all that happened _before_ Defense Against the Dark Arts. 

Professor Lockhart wore white robes with a golden pattern swirling around on them. Roswitha thought he resembled something like a lava lamp, and the gold pattern clashed with his blonde hair. If maybe he had worn some sort of jewel tone with golden accents it might have been less glaring. He held up a copy of one of his books, taken from Neville’s desk, and pointed at his picture on the cover. 

“Me… Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of _Witch Weekly’s _Most-Charming-Smile Award -- but I don’t talk about that. I didn’t get rid of the Bandon Banshee by _smiling_ at her!” 

He paused, smiling brightly at them, and Rowitha sort of saw why people liked him. He _was_ very handsome, had a very bright smile and did indeed look quite charming. But there was something about his smile -- it aimed to disarm her, she realized. Unfortunately for Professor Lockhart, this realization armed Roswitha quite a lot, and she sat up sharply. 

“Do you have a question, Miss Black?” Professor Lockhart asked, his attention going to her.

“No, sir,” said Roswitha, shaking her head. “Apologies, I thought I saw a fly.” 

Professor Lockhart smiled in her direction and tutted. “Nothing to be afraid of, Miss Black. Say, I would have gone to school with your father, Sirius, wouldn’t I have?”

Roswitha kept her face passive (even as she saw Draco’s face turn to shock and rage) and raised a single eyebrow. “No -- you went to school with my father, _Regulus _and my _uncle_, Sirius.” 

Out of the corner of her eye, Roswitha saw Blaise Zabini, who sat next to Draco, restrained him gently. Draco had nearly risen from his seat, and as it was, he had his mouth open to add to her statement. Pansy had her wand in Draco’s back, though, apparently having silenced him. 

Lockhart’s smile dropped from his face and he turned quite red. He coughed, “Right, well, then, let’s begin, shall we. I have a little pop quiz here, to see how closely you’ve all read your texts.” He began passing out the exams, studiously avoiding Roswitha’s eyes, which never left him for a moment. When he had passed out the exams, Lockhart turned over an hour glass, saying, “You have thirty minutes, beign!” 

Roswitha very nearly did not even look at the quiz, feeling so insulted that a fire burned in her belly. Her anger wasn’t worth her grades, though, so she at last relented against Lockhart and turned over the quiz. 

Immediately, she felt disappointed:

_What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favorite color?_

_What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s secret ambition?_

_What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart’s greatest achievement to date?_

Draco would, sometimes in a moment of outrage, decry, “My father will hear about this!” At that very moment, Roswitha understood the urge to write Lucius and Narcissa and her own father about what whatever this absolutely ludicrous document was. She saw that Draco was similarly scowling down at his paper and wondered if he was planning a similar stunt. Roswitha began to write out a letter on her notebook that she had planned to take notes in, making a mental note to tell Susan Bones about this as well -- it would help to have support from all houses. She should also talk to some of the upper years. 

“Miss Black!”

Roswitha looked up in horror to find Lockhart standing over her shoulder. 

Professor Lockhart waggled a finger at her. “No notes during exams. Your book -- you may have it back after class.” 

Roswitha snapped the book shut so he would not see the letter, but passed it over. Professor Lockhart took it up to the front of the classroom and placed it on his desk. Left with nothing else to do, Roswitha began to fill out the exam, rather than sit idle for the next twenty-five minutes. By the end of it, though, Roswitha rather wished she _had_ sat idle, rather than filling out the paper, her head ached, almost worse than it had in Professor Quirrel’s class. 

Roswitha looked up at the clock which hung behind Lockhart as he was reviewing the exams aloud and wished it would go faster. _Please_, she begged it, _please get me out of this insufferable man’s class_. To her delight, the hands began to go faster. Roswitha looked around at everyone else in the class, but they all had their eyes on Lockhart (for one reason or another). When Lockhart at last set down the exams, after awarding Hermione ten points for getting all fifty-four questions of their quiz correct, Roswitha raised her hand before he went on another tangent.

Lockhart paused, but then called out, “Yes, Miss Black?”

“Sir, it’s time to go,” said Roswitha, pointing at the clock behind him. 

Professor Lockhart blinked rapidly and turned to look at the clock. Since the clock face read 3:15, he couldn’t actually argue. Roswitha wrinkled her nose, wishing for the gears to stop so they would stay in place and the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff class wouldn’t be counted as late.

Lockhart turned back to the class. “My goodness gracious! We must have gone over with the review. Well, tell you all what, we shall just have to wait until next week for a practical exam.”

Hermione opened her mouth, the word, “homework,” nearly fully formed, when Lavender yanked her from the seat and out the door. Only Draco and Dean tarred with Roswitha as she went up to the desk to ask for her notebook back. 

Lockhart gave a charming smile and passed the notebook back to her. “Don’t let me catch you with it again, or it will be detention.” 

Roswitha decided not to argue the fact that she regularly used it to take notes -- after all, she felt she wouldn’t be making many notes in this class -- and just said, “Yes, sir,” before beating a hasty retreat with Dean and Draco at her heels. 

“Thanks for the backup,” she said when they got far enough away. 

“Had a feeling no one should go alone in his presence,” said Dean with a nod. 

Draco fummed however. “How dare he presume to know who your father was and then _get it wrong_. It could start the entirely wrong rumors about who your parents are.”

Roswitha wondered if there were already rumors -- she wondered if Pappa had been hearing rumors already circulating, if there were any, and that was what had him so concerned about her telling everyone she was a parselmouth. Suddenly the Secret Bowl left a bad taste in her mouth. 

They met Hermione on the way to the clubhouse, Ron trailing behind her saying, “C’mon, Hermione, let’s count our blessings.” 

“It’s only 2:30!” Hermione protested. “We should be in class!” 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” said Draco, frowning, “but I agree with Ron. The man’s a charlatan, Granger; it’s clear by what he considers appropriate exam questions.”

“They were questions to see how closely we read the books,” said Hermione, rolling her eyes. 

“If he was really trying to teach us,” said Draco, rolling his eyes right back, “his questions would have been more defense related -- like how he beat all those creatures he claims to have beaten. That’s the sort of thing a teacher would expect you to pay attention to, not his favorite color.”

Hermione huffed, frowning, but Roswitha could tell she thought Draco had a good point. “If he’s not actually a defense master,” Hermione asked, “then why did Dumbledore hire him?”

Roswitha winced. “Erm, Hermione? Professor Flitwick told me that people sort of think the DADA position is… cursed. So, there might not have been many people who applied.” 

“A cursed teaching position?” Hermione asked, staring blankly at her. “Your father is a curse breaker, do you really believe that?” 

Roswitha shook her head. “And Professor Flitwick didn’t either -- but he said since people believe it, they don’t want to apply for the position. But please, Lockhart was giving me a headache, do we have to go back?” 

Hermione relented at last, her shoulder dropping. “Oh alright, but this once! Next week we absolutely need to stay for the whole time. I’m not convinced that he’s not all he says he is -- surely you don’t publish as many books as he has without someone fact-checking you.” She spun around to return to the club house.

Roswitha and Dean shared a pained look. Ron and Draco shared a confused one. 

“What’s that mean, Hermione?” Ron asked as they walked along. “Fact-checking?” 

Hermione stopped short and turned very, very pale. “What?” she asked. 

“What do you mean, what?” said Draco, bumping her. “Ron asked you a question first.” 

Hermione remained sort of stunned, and Roswitha sighed and pulled her along. “I’ll explain later,” said Roswitha on behalf of her friend. From there they walked on to the clubhouse to read or work on homework or in Roswitha’s case, write a letter.

Dear Pappa,

I am doing mostly well, except I have just come from the most insufferable Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Gilderoy Lockhart has most definitely not changed from how you remember him. He gave us a pop quiz to start the class, only instead of the questions being about his deeds they were about just him -- his favorite color and other sorts of drivel. Nothing about defeating werewolves or hags or anything. I thought nothing could be worse than the headaches I got from the environs of Professor Quirrel’s class, but at least he knew what he was talking about from a theoretical standpoint!

I’ve had a chance to calm down since the class, and I’ve thought it through so I know that he might be the only person available to teach. (Professor Flitwick sends his regards and also may have mentioned a curse on the DADA position -- do you know anything about that?) and therefore it shall not be easy to remove him. All the same, would you recommend some defense texts that I and the others might study from? 

Hermione, very perturbed to find there is apparently no fact checking among wizards (or at least none that our peers have heard of, have you?), requests any particularly reputable texts on werewolves. I imagine she will be asking for texts about all the subjects Lockhart has covered, but I will attempt to get her to pace herself should you show this to Helen and Manny. 

I hope everything at home is well. 

All my love,

Roswitha

When she had started at Hogwarts a year ago, Roswitha had found it odd that classes only met once a week. Hermione theorized that it was based on the lecture series model of some two hundred years ago, like the ones you saw in _Frankenstein_. Roswitha had come to enjoy the smaller amount of class time as it gave her more time during the day to do homework, and therefore to play with her friends. It also meant that she only had Lockhart’s class once a week. After two classes, she found that by Friday’s Quidditch practice she had almost worked the annoyance out of her system -- it helped that she went to punch something every day and meditated during yoga and each night before she went to bed. 

Of course, the first full week in October, something went wrong with Friday’s Quidditch practice, when Flint decided he had gone long enough without annoying Oliver.

“Ye can’t just waltz in here and ignore the pitch bookings!” said Oliver, waving his broom, bristle end, in Flint’s general direction.

Roswitha fought the temptation to lean on her broom with a sigh, as it would mess up the bristles. As it was, Roswitha yawned, then turned to level a long, hard look at Draco. 

Draco, dressed in his new Slytherin Quidditch robes, nudged her, making a loud stage whisper, “How long does he go on for?”

Wood glared at Draco, but the other Slytherins laughed. Draco only shrugged. 

“You could always play a pick up game!” Dean called from the stands. For some reason Roswitha hadn’t been able to divine, he had a cluster of the first years around him. 

The two teams made identical faces of confusion. 

“What’s a pick up game?” called back Adrian Pucey. 

“Where you play each other, but for practice and not for official points!” Dean called back. “They do it all the time in footie!” 

“What’s footie?” Flint asked, turning back to Wood.

“Football,” said Roswitha when Wood shrugged. “It’s like Quidditch without brooms -- the muggles play it. What do you think, Oliver? Gryffindor’s up for a quick game, right?”

If Oliver noticed her goading, he didn’t say. Instead, he puffed up and turned to Flint. “Aye, we’re up for a game. What about ye lot?” 

Flint puffed up as well. “We’re up for a game, aren’t we team?” 

The Slytherin team fairly shouted their assent. 

Gryffindor had already checked the balls out from Madam Hooch, but they had no one to keep score or referee. Dean, leaving the first years in the care of themselves, ran back up to the castle, and came back some twenty minutes later with Lee Jordan for score keeping and Cedric Diggory as referee. Both Flint and Wood agreed that Diggory was a good choice for referee, as everyone knew the Hufflepuffs were fair down to their bones. 

The pick up match didn’t begin with the new arrivals, however, as Cedric had to restart the regular oration Madam Hooch gave at the start of each match. He kept getting distracted by the others streaming into the pitch stands. At last, Cedric huffed and said, “Look, all of you know the rules, don’t you?” 

“Aye,” said Wood, at the same time Flint said, “Yes.” 

“Then let’s just play,” said Cedric. “Shake hands.” 

Wood and Flint shook hands, and all of them mounted their brooms. They rose into the air. On a count, Cedric tossed out the quaffle. 

Roswitha, since she had a moment before the snitch was released, noticed that Lee was fiddling with something in his scorekeeping box. After a moment, he came back with the silver microphone he used to narrate the games, announcing, “GOOD AFTERNOON HOGWARTS!” 

The people in the stands cheered. There were not many of them so far, but more were streaming out onto the pitch as the game went on. 

“It seems we’ve all caught Quidditch mania, and I need to catch up in my announcing. You know our teams of course. Slytherin has an early lead, just made a shot by Chaser Pucey. Gryffindor in possession now though, Chaser Johnson makes a longshot… and Chaser Bell is there too receive! Keeper Bletchley momentary stunned -- Gryffindor scores! And again! Gryffindor is up 20-10.” 

Roswitha giggled at Jordan’s announcing, but then she saw Cedric had dived down to the box that held the balls. He released the bludgers from their confines, but he also released a little glint of gold as well. Roswitha grinned as she saw the snitch fly from its confines and flit away. She followed it with her eyes for a moment, but then lost it. 

“Ros! Duck!” Fred called out, racing toward her. 

Roswitha brought her eyes back to focus just in time to see a bludger coming her way. She dropped her broom just in time and the bludger missed her by a good ten feet. 

“Keep an eye out cousin!” Draco called coming to rest his broom alongside her. 

“What are you keeping an eye on, Draco?” Roswith asked. 

Draco grinned at her. “You of course! You’ve played and won a few games for Gryffindor now -- I follow you and all I have to do is catch the snitch first.”

Roswitha rolled her eyes. “That’s a horrible strategy! What if I feint?”

“I’ll know if you are,” said Draco, sticking his nose in the air. Then, his eyes went wide and Draco dove. 

Roswitha followed his line of sight and saw nothing -- sure enough Draco pulled up a moment later. He turned and pouted when he realized she had not followed. Roswitha cupped her hands around her mouth, calling, “Better luck next time, cousin!” WIth that, she pushed the broom and began a serious hunt for the snitch. 

Forty minutes on and the game was neck and neck with Slytherin up by a mere ten points. Roswitha still vigorously hunted for the snitch, and attempted to vigorously outfly Draco, when she spotted several people climbing up into the stands to take seats in and among the Pride. They particularly caught her attention, for they were not dressed as typical students, even on their day off, and by the way Hermione jumped to her feet and tackled one of them for a hug. Roswitha flew closer and found it was Helen, Manny, Maj. Thomas and her own father. 

“Pappa!” Roswitha cried out as she landed on the stand’s edge. She fairly tackled him as the momentum moved her still. 

Pappa laughed and caught her up in his arms. “Oughtn’t you be looking for something?” 

“It’s just for practice,” said Roswitha, feeling herself filled with joy. “Did you come for a visit?”

“Yes, yes,” said Pappa, brushing a stray hair out of her face. “But come now, my darling heart, let’s see a game. Even if I am a little conflicted on who to root for -- my darling or my old team.” 

Roswitha rolled her eyes. “Me of course! Hullo Helen, Manny, Maj. Thomas!”

They all chimed their hellos smiles ablaze as the other Gryffindors began to work their way through the stands to where they were sitting. 

“Oh, we’re about to be mobbed,” said Helen as she saw Hermione fairly racing toward them. 

“Go on then, Captain, give us a good game,” said Maj. Thomas, grinning at her. 

Roswitha, still standing on the edge of the stadium’s seats, saluted and jumped off, broom in hand. She pulled it underneath her and took off, beginning a zigzag pattern around the stadium to look for the snitch. Only a few minutes later Roswitha saw a glint of gold near where Cedric was flying to referee the action. She pushed her broom to go faster, weaving around a scuffle for the quaffle. The snitch was on the move, but Roswitha had her eye on it. She flew fast and hard, trying to ignore the fact that Draco had grabbed onto her tail wind and was coming up fast alongside her. The snitch flew lower and lower until it rocketed up -- Rowitha followed its every move. When at last it paused in the air, some ten feet above the keeper goal posts, Roswitha wrapped her fingers firmly around it.

“HAS SHE? YES! BLACK’S DONE IT! SHE HAS THE SNITCH!” Jordan announced from his post. “GRYFFINDOR WINS, 230-80.”

As Roswitha descended to the ground, she turned to where her father was in the stands. He looked right at her, shaking his head and laughing. He raised his wand and murmured something. A silver figure appeared on the stand railing; Pappa spoke something further, and the little figure darted over air to her where she stood on the ground of the pitch. As it came closer, Roswitha saw it was a little silver fox. 

It darted around her, nuzzling close before it spoke with her father’s voice, “Go and clean up, darling heart. I’ll catch up to you outside the locker rooms.” 

“Aww.” Angelina ruffled Roswitha’s already messy hair. “He calls you darling heart.” 

Roswitha flushed. “Yes.” 

“Never mind that,” said Pucey, his eyes wide. “Your father knows how to do a patronus?” 

“Would seem so,” said Roswitha, shrugging, though she did not quite know what a patronus was. She held her broom up and mounted it side saddle. “Are we dismissed then, Captains?” Roswitha asked, turning her attention to Flint and Wood. 

Wood and Flint simultaneously rolled their eyes and said, “Yes.”

Roswitha did not stick around to savor their startled looks, instead heading to the locker room to clean up, the other girls following close behind her. Roswitha took the quickest shower of her life, and then took Katie up on her offer to plait Roswitha’s long hair. Thankfully, they all kept a spare set of clothes in the locker room, so they had clean things to change into before heading out. Roswitha called for a house elf to please take their quidditch robes to the laundry.

“Good thought!” said Alicia as they left. 

Pappa waited outside of the locker room, Draco by his side. Pappa had a fond look on his face even as he said, “Draco, I am entirely certain that isn’t possible. People just don’t change houses.”

“But you _would_ talk to her about it if it were, wouldn’t you?” Draco asked. 

“Roswitha was sorted into the house where she will do best,” said Pappa. He reached down and clasped Draco’s shoulder. “Now, I know I saw your parents in the stands, why don’t you go and find them? I’d like a moment alone with our girl.” 

Draco huffed but nodded. “Oh, alright.” He picked up his broom and, apparently not having had enough flying for the day, flew away towards the castle. 

Pappa turned at the sound of her approach with the other girls on the team. He turned and smiled, tipping his hat gallantly. “Ladies.” 

“Hullo Mr. Black,” the three chasers chorused. 

Katie pinched Roswitha’s side, but she chose to ignore the way they giggled at her father, and went over by his side, her broom on her shoulder. Angelina, Alicia and Katie giggled a little more as they walked away toward the castle. 

Pappa wrapped an arm around her. “Well, that was certainly exciting. How on earth did you all agree to play an extra game?” 

As they meandered back up to the castle, Roswitha explained how Gryffindor had booked the pitch, but Flint seemed to have a thing for goading Oliver, so the Slytherins had showed up under the pretense of training Draco, and then how it devolved into playing a practice game. “I don’t know how everyone knew to show up,” said Roswitha, shrugging. “Though I suspect Dean had something to do with it.” 

“Well, I am very glad I got to see any extra game — I couldn’t come as much as I wanted last year.” He had taken her hand as they walked and now swung their linked arms back and forth. 

“And you brought friends with you!” said Roswitha filled with glee. 

Pappa winked at her. “Indeed I did. I also brought some requested reading material — though I am unsure why the library would not have sufficed.”

Roswitha shook her head. “Our defense collection is severely lacking, and there are _some_ books on the creatures Lockhart wrote his books about, but not enough for Hermione’s needs.” 

“Humph, well.” Pappa hummed a moment more. “I did have a talk with Lucius and you were correct about there being no other candidates to fill the post. Quite simply, if Lockhart is not here, the defense against the dark arts class would cease to exist.”

The idea of the class ending began a thought rolling over in Roswitha’s mind, but she couldn’t turn it to completion just now. Instead she said, “Pappa, did Professor Dumbledore really ask you to teach DADA?”

“Yes,” said Pappa, nodding. “And I told him no. I’d like no more on the subject, please. Here’s the great hall, now, let’s have lunch so I can see what it might be like to sit at the Gryffindor table for a change.” 

Roswitha found her year mates in what had become their new usual spot with Maj. Thomas, Mr. and Mrs. Dunbar, Mr. Roper, Mrs. Brown, Manny and Helen. Padma was sitting with them, though Mr. and Mrs. Patil were absent, as were any of Neville’s guardians, the Weasleys, and the Finnigans. 

“Mama and Papa couldn’t get away on such short notice,” said Padma, with a small shrug. “But they sent us a box of treats.” 

It was the same with all the other parents missing, though Roswitha was pleased to see there was a nice mix of parents at the other houses as well. She spotted the familiar blonde heads of her Malfoy cousins over at the Slytherin table, as well as a man and a woman sitting with Cedric, and Luna talking animatedly to a man who observed her with totality. 

“So no classes at _all_ on Friday?” Maj. Thomas was asking with a frown. 

“We do other things, Mum,” Dean protested. 

Maj. Thomas looked down at him. “Like what?”

“Like our homework or getting exercise or clubs. And we had Astronomy on Friday nights last year.” 

Pappa and Mr. Roper were frowning at her. 

“Is it different elsewhere?” Mr. Roper asked. “About half our family goes to a smaller school in Turkey and half go here, but even the school in Turkey doesn’t have the same class but twice a week. They’re able to because they have about half as many students as Hogwarts.” 

“I wish,” said Mr. Dunbar, snorting. “We definitely had classes every day of the week, and each of them _at least_ four times. _Maybe_ three if one of them was a double subject. But I will say one thing,” he nodded up to the head table. “If these are the only teachers they’ve got then there’s no way they could do many more classes a week, could they, Em?” 

Maj. Thomas was still frowning, but looked around the room, as if doing a quick tally of all the students versus the professors. 

While the adults continued to talk about professors to class ratio, Roswitha ducked out of the conversation to talk with her friends. “Pappa said he brought us defense books,” she supplied. 

“And werewolves?” Hermione asked, zeroing in on the conversations. 

“I think so,” said Roswitha nodding. “Anyway, did we want to go to the clubhouse after this and have a look?”

“Please?” Padma asked, leaning into the conversation. “I was thinking about what Hermione said about fact checking. Especially after the Pixie incident. And, well, it might be nice to do a little bit more serious reading.” 

The pixie incident referred to the fact that Lockhart had released a cageful of cornish pixies on the Ravenclaw/Hufflepuff defense class. Since Lockhart hadn’t gotten to the practical portion of the Gryffindor/Slytherin class, he had gone straight there after his quiz with the Ravenclaw/Hufflepuff class. Unfortunately, he hadn’t actually known what to do with them, and so everyone, Lockhart, fled the classroom. The house elves had had to clean up later and get the pixies back into their cage.

Roswitha had felt bad about the whole thing, since she had narrowly avoided having that inflicted on her own class. She nodded to Padma. “Alright -- I’ll direct him that way after we eat.” 

“Might be nice to have something that is actually about defense,” Ron conceded, as he took a bite of meat pie. 

And with that they all began to tuck in a little more, excited for the possibility of doing _real_ defense magic, not just what Lockhart felt like quizzing them about his books or acting out scenes from it. 

When they had all eaten their fill, the second years directed their group of parents to their clubhouse. Roswitha caught Maj. Thomas, in between listening to how Dean was doing in Transfiguration, looking at all the empty classrooms. Several other second years were already there with their parents, Regulus broke off from the parent group who went to chat with the other adults and instead when to go stand by their bookshelf. 

“Gather round, children,” he called, drawing all of them over to him. From his pockets, he took two brick sized boxes. As Roswitha looked closer, she realized they were two trunks, and had the family crest emblazoned on the top. “Now then, who would like to learn a little curse breaking?”

Forty hands shot up in the air. 

Pappa laughed and placed two trunks on the ground. “Alright then, this is a charm you should always cast when investigating something magical, and it's one as second years you all should manage easily. _Manufeste praecantatio._”

Out of habit, they all repeated the incantation after him, and then watched closely as he performed the wand motions. Pappa moved out of the way and asked who would like to cast a spell on one of the trunks. Lisa Turpin from Ravenclaw volunteered and enchanted it over one of the trunks. The trunk lit up purple and yellow, and the names of two spells -- the shrinking spell and the feather light spell -- appeared in the air for a few seconds before they evaporated like mist. 

“And who would like to try it on the other one?” Pappa asked. 

“Shouldn’t they be the same?” Blaise asked, looking at the other. 

“And why would you think that?” Pappa asked, gently, meeting Blaise’s eye. 

Blaise ducked his head and shrugged. “Well, you brought them both -- why would you use different spells on them?”

“A good thought,” said Pappa with a smile. “If I could give points, I would. But now, let’s suppose you’re doing my job for a day. You have a person who’s asked you to come and take a look at these trunks their ancestor left in the attic of their house. Your client thinks the trunks might be full of valuables, but they also mentioned this ancestor was a miser and very possessive of his things. The trunks_ do_ look the same, why might you cast the spell again?” 

The group considered this for a moment before Susan shyly raised her hand. “Could one be a trap?” 

“It definitely could,” said Pappa, nodding. “Now, have I a volunteer to try again?”

“I’ll have a go, Mr. Black,” said Ron, stepping forward. “_Manufeste praecantatio._”

Ron’s spell produced the same results that Lisa’s had, the same colors and spells. 

“Why amethyst and gold?” Draco asked without raising his hand, as the light faded from the second trunk.

Pappa hummed for moment. “Well, that’s more magical theory than we might have time to cover, but I’ll try to be brief. Suffice to say, it’s the color of the spell’s magic.”

Anthony raised his hand and waited for Pappa to call on him. “Why would you need to know the color of magic if you know the name of the spell?”

“A good question,” said Pappa with a nod. “Roswitha, I performed this two spells on your school trunk when we walked to the train. Do you remember what order I had you undo them in?”

Roswitha wrinkled her nose. “The featherlight charm, then the shrinking spell.” 

“And if I tell you all that the featherlight charm is the purple, and the shrinking spell is yellow,” said Pappa before he cast the spell again, “will that help someone to guess why we go in that order?” 

“Does it…?” Everyone turned to Megan Jones who flushed, but pressed on at the encouragement of other ‘puffs. “Does it have anything to do with the rainbow?” 

Pappa gave her an encouraging smile, which only served to deepen Mengan’s flush, and asked, “How do you mean?”

“Well, in primary we learned the order of the colors in the rainbow was red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and purple,” said Megan. Then she frowned. “But you said the featherlight charm was the purple one and the shrinking spell was yellow, so maybe that’s not right?” 

“You’re exactly right,” said Pappa, still smiling. “I didn’t mean to make you think otherwise. Shall I fill you all in, or would someone else like to have a guess?”

When no one else offered, Roswitha slowly raised her hand. 

“Yes?” said Pappa. 

“Could it be that we apply them in rainbow order and remove them in the reverse?” Roswitha asked, shuffling a little as everyone looked at her. 

“Yes, very good! You see, when you are working on curses, and charms, and traps of all kinds, you have to be very careful with how the magic is woven together. You want to always go in reverse order to application, and we can usually guess the application by the color of magic -- which is important because as a curse breaker, you may not always know the language in which the spell was cast. Now, someone can go out of order, but their magic is not likely to last or work in the first place. Shall I undo the spells, or do I have any volunteers?”

There was a chorus of volunteers, and Pappa ended up picking Pansy and Hephaestus, instructing them on how to undo a spell when there were two present. Then he picked Kevin from Ravenclaw and Lavender to undo the second set.

Spells all undone, Pappa had them all stand back a little and pressed a button on each trunk face. The trunk lids lifted up and two new bookshelves rose out of them, each filled end to end with books. The second years clapped at the sight of them. 

“Are they all defense books?” someone asked. 

“Several are,” said Pappa. “But there are books about your other subjects as well, you might thank your parents as well, as we all tried to contribute something. Remember to say thank you to the ones you love, yes?”

“Yes!” the group of second years replied. “Thank you, Mr. Black.” The second remark was not quite a unified chorus, but came nearly all together. 

Pappa ducked his head, but still gave a winning smile. “You’re quite welcome, children.” 

Roswitha took pity on her father -- she clasped his hand and pulled him out and away from the crowd. “That was a wonderful lesson,” Roswitha said, softly as the others began to either go over the shelves or going over to their parents. “Thank you for bringing all of the books.”

“You are most welcome, my darling heart.” Pappa ran his knuckles over her cheek. “I was quite glad to come, and it seems you and your friends were eager for a little instruction.” He looked up and around at the club house. “I like this room -- I like that you all have a place to meet together -- and seats with no one higher than the other.”

Roswitha smiled as he looked over to the round table. “I like it too -- it was Ron’s idea.” 

Pappa chuckled. “Naturally; it seems his grandfather chose the family’s names well.” 

“Would you have named me after a star?” Roswitha asked, tilting her head to one side to look at him. 

“Hmm... “ Pappa considered this for a moment, as he tilted his head in the same direction as her, and then he reached to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. “I don’t know what I would have called you, when you first came to my arms. I always think of you as Roswitha, and the name fits you so well in my minds eye, I could not imagine another to put to you. Do you want to be named after a star?”

Roswitha, too, considered this idea. There seemed to be a thought she could not quite grasp as she turned it over in her mind, about names and changing them. It slipped away as she thought that she had always been called Roswitha. After a moment, she shook her head. “No, I cannot imagine myself with another name either.” 

“Good.” Pappa tapped her nose. “Now stay as you are, forever more. No growing up or changing, do you understand?” 

Roswitha giggled. “I don’t think I can make that promise. I’m sure to break it.”

Pappa clicked his tongue. “Ah, well, it was worth a try. Oh, I see Lucius waving us over, my darling heart.” 

Roswitha, without another word, grasped her father’s hand as they crossed the room. Narcissa pouted in Roswitha’s direction, especially once Roswitha stopped. Roswitha sighed, though managed to restrain an eye roll as she bobbed a deep curtsy. When she rose, she said, “I noticed none of you bowed back.”

“Cheek,” said Narcissa, executing a flawless curtsy. At her signal, Lucius bowed as well, as did Pappa. “I certainly hope you’re still attending etiquette lessons.”

“Yes, Cousin Narcissa, I promise,” said Roswitha, as genially as she could manage. She didn’t really mind the etiquette lessons, and they did allow her to spend some time alone with the Slytherin girls whom she did not get a chance to see much outside of that 

“Etiquette classes?” Roswitha turned to see Manny, Helen and Hermione standing over her shoulder. It was Helen who had spoken, her smile bright against her brilliant, dark skin. “Hermione hasn’t mentioned anything about that.”

“It’s more of a club,” said Roswitha, “but the elder students do instruct the younger so.” She shrugged gently. 

“Ah, well. Sorry to interrupt, but Hermione wanted to show us the Gryffindor dorms, and I just wanted to make sure, Regulus, about the portkey.”

“It won’t leave for London until three.” Pappa dug out his pocket watch. “And it’s not yet half one. I’ll make sure we don’t leave without you, worry not.”

Lucius gave a smile, which was not unkind, but not kind either. “Oh to doubt your honor, Regulus, lord, what fools these mortals be.” 

If Helen or Manny were insulted, they did not show. Manny, in fact, responded, saying, “Stand aside: the noise they make; Will cause Demetrius to awake.”

Lucius blinked rapidly. “You know the Bard?”

“Intimately,” Manny replied, smooth and confident. “Why, Helen and I when we played in a production of _The Winter’s Tale_ during Uni. It’s one of the reasons this one is called Hermione.”

Hermione blushed. “Dad!’

“The truth, love, only truth,” said Manny. 

Narcissa tilted her head to one side, intrigued. “The other, if I may ask?”

“Well, I am called Helen and he Menelaus,” said Helen, a bright smile on her face. “It seemed natural to call our daughter Hermione.”

“And what shall you do if you find a Paris?” Narcissa asked, delight spreading across her face.

“Oh,” said Manny, a shameless grin spreading on his own. “We’ve agreed to share him.” 

Pappa choked, partly on laughter, partly on surprise. Lucius and Narcissa, too, looked quite shocked. The joke had gone a little over Roswitha’s head, though whatever had been meant by it had clearly won the round for the Granger-Comptons. 

“Well, you’ll have to excuse us,” said Manny, not breaking stride in his words. “Hermione really is quite eager about us seeing the dorm. Good day.” He then made a perfect execution of the same bow Pappa and Lucius had done a moment ago, Helen curtsying to match. 

Hermione walked away with her parents, still pink cheeked, but looking unbelievably smug. 

“Who were those people?” Narcissa asked, in a lower tone of voice as they watched them go. 

“Dr. Helen Granger and Dr. Menelaus Compton,” said Roswitha, primly. “Their daughter, Hermione, is a first generation witch and one of my best friends. Please save face when you interact with them, cousins. For my sake?”

Lucius frowned at this request. “You would do well to consider your position in the world, Roswitha Black.”

Roswitha blinked. “What does that mean, Cousin Lucius?”

“Just as I said,” said Lucius. Then he frowned, mumbling, “Muggles in Hogwarts, my how times have changed.” 

“For the better, I would think, dear cousin,” said Pappa, his voice only a little louder than Lucius’. “Perhaps I ought to take you out into the muggle world, cousin. They may not have magic, but they still have marvels. And things we can learn.” 

Lucius looked as if he wanted to argue, but the club house was still full of parents, wizard and muggle alike, and other students close by. Instead, he said, “Perhaps I will indulge you in this, cousin.” 

Pappa merely looked amused. “I would delight in that, cousin. Would the two of you care to dine at Grimmauld Place tonight?”

“Perhaps you should come to White Feather,” said Narcissa, easily, with a bright smile. “You and Severus both, if you can pry him from the dungeons. It has been some time since you came to visit us. It wouldn’t do for you to forget the way, Regulus.” 

Pappa laughed -- different from his normal laugh, somehow less filled with joy. “As if I could forget what was written in my skin, Narcissa. But yes, I’ll come to White Feather.” 

Roswitha took her father’s hand and squeezed it to get his attention. “Pappa, didn’t you say you wanted to see Professor Flitwick while you were here? And I was to show you the Gryffindor common room as well.” 

Pappa didn’t miss a beat. “Ah, that will be a rare treat -- a snake in the lion’s den. What time shall I be expected for supper?” 

“Six o’ clock tonight, I think,” said Narcissa. She leaned over and kissed Regulus goodbye, and then did the same for Roswitha. 

Lucius, however, shook hands with Regulus, and then offered to shake hands with Roswitha as well. Roswitha shook his with delight. Cousin Lucius was not bad to her, and Roswitha had never gotten the impression that he would hurt her, but it still felt odd to kiss a man on his cheek when he was not her father or a close relation. 

When they had gone a ways from the clubhouse, Pappa murmured, “Thank you for that my dear, I would not have liked to engage in a fight.” 

“I think Mr. Dunbar would have backed you up,” said Roswitha, easily. 

Pappa chuckled. “Yes, well, even so, I do not like to resort to such things if I can avoid them.” He paused, looking a little distant. “You know, there was a time when I would have stirred the pot just because I could, come what may. And no doubt Lucius will try and stir me up again tonight, but that’s a problem for another time.” He paused. “Would you really be allowed to take me into the Gryffindor common room?” 

“Why not?” asked Roswitha, as she shrugged. “Hermione gets to take her parents there, and the prefects said the only reason we can’t tell other house members is so if someone finds another common room during an attack they can’t tell the attackers where the others are. It’s not like you’re in Slytherin House any more.”

At that Pappa paused, stopping in the middle of the corridor and stopping Roswitha with him. “On second thought, my darling heart, let’s go and see Professor Flitwick. I’m sure the Gryffindor dorm looks enough like the Slytherin one, just with different colors.”

Roswitha furrowed her brow as she looked up at him. “Are you sure? I don’t think anyone would mind.”

“I’m sure.” Pappa smiled at her, but it was not his normal carefree smile. “Come now, is the charms classroom in the same place, or shall I get us lost trying to find it?” 

Roswitha desperately wanted to ask him what he meant by changing his mind so suddenly, but she had a feeling Pappa would just tell her not to worry about something like this. Instead, she nudged him toward the stairs. “The charms class is on the third floor.”

Pappa’s smile became more genuine as he allowed himself to be steered toward the staircases. 

From there they had a light afternoon. Professor Flitwick and Pappa talked at length about curse breaking and charms. The conversation only discontinued when other parents arrived with their children to scope out the classroom and talk with Professor Flitwick as well. 

When they left, Roswitha suggested, “Why don’t we go and see Father?”

“Not just yet, darling heart,” said Pappa, shaking his head, with a little flush. “Father was going to come home this weekend, and I don’t know how yet to tell him that we’re now engaged to go to White Feather. Let’s go and talk to Professor Dumbledore instead. I want to quiz him about your occlumency education.”

Roswitha only shrugged at this and led the way. “Here we are -- may I go up with my father please?” she asked as they stopped in front of the gargoyles. 

The gargoyle barely hesitated before it moved to the side for them. 

Pappa looked down at her, caught between a frown and bewonderment. “My,” was all he managed to say as they separated from one another to ascend the stairs. 

“What?” Roswitha asked. 

“Most people would have needed the password, my darling heart,” said Regulus, as they kept walking. 

Roswitha shrugged. “Well, I’ve always gotten by with asking.” They arrived at the top of the steps and found the interior door open. Roswitha knocked on it all the same to draw Professor Dumbledore’s attention to her. 

“My,” said Dumbledore. He sat back in his seat, his eyes twinkling over his half-moon glasses. “I must be having deja vu. I could have sworn I saw you this morning.”

Said Roswitha, “I was not with my father then, so you cannot be having deja vu, Professor.”

“Most people would consider it rude to answer back to a professor, young lady,” said Pappa as they entered into the office. He removed his hat. “Hello, Albus.” 

“Regulus,” said Professor Dumbledore. 

Roswitha, already most of the way to Fawkes’ perch, paused. “Do you consider it rude, Professor? If I answer back?” 

“I think you and I have a somewhat different relationship than you may with other professors,” said Professor Dumbledore gently. “And so how you answer me may be more informal than how you answer another professor, as you are the only pupil I teach directly. Tell me, would you answer Professor Snape the way you answer me?”

Roswitha considered it for a moment. Fawkes, impatient, flew the short distance and landed on her shoulder. Reaching up to stroke his feathers, Roswitha said, “I do not think I would answer Professor Snape that way, certainly not if others were around. Perhaps if we were at home and we were both in a joking mood. But not any other professor -- I would _never _answer Professor McGonagall that way, for instance.” 

“That is very good,” said Dumbledore with a nod. “Though do be careful around Fawkes -- he is beginning to look quite dreadful and will no doubt burn soon.” 

Fawkes squawked in what might have been indignation. Roswitha did not think he looked dreadful, though his plumage was much darker than it had been last year. Though, since Dumbledore had a love of bright colors, perhaps that was what he meant. Or, since he and Fawkes had likely been Familiar for some time, perhaps they had a different rapport than others might with a majestic phoenix. 

Pappa shook his head. “I think only you could get away with calling a sacred bird, ‘dreadful,’ Albus, no matter the color of their feathers.” 

Dumbledore tsk’d. “You must not call him sacred, Regulus, he’ll only get a big beak over it.”

Fawkes outright screeched at that and launched himself from Roswitha’s arm. Roswitha felt a little prickle as she did when Hedwig sometimes did the same. Instead of checking, she watched as Fawkes landed on Dumbledore’s desk, and screeched right in his face. 

Dumbledore looked nonplussed, however. “You will only make yourself burn sooner.” 

Roswitha decided there was no polite way to describe what Fawkes did next, but it did it on Dumbledore’s desk, on a piece of correspondence, and then flew out the open window with a mighty screech. Dumbledore did not vanish the mess or parchment, instead, merely folding it up and tucking it away in his desk drawer. “The letter was to Dr. Scamander,” he explained. “I shall have to start again, but she will be most delighted to have a sample of late stage phoenix dung.” 

Roswitha giggled helplessly, bursting out into a great laughter that had her bending over from the force of it. Breathless, she nearly fell to her knees as tears began to form in her eyes. Dumbledore looked delighted as well, but Pappa distinctly did not.

“That’s not funny,” said Pappa, his face flush as he tried to right her. “Roswitha, darling, please stop laughing.” 

With some effort, Roswitha managed to recover herself, reducing her laughter to a few snorts and chuckles as she stood back up. “Sorry, Pappa, sorry Professor.” 

Dumbledore’s twinkle had returned in full force. “That is quite alright, dear girl. Come here for a moment and let me heal you — Fawkes’ talons did you no favors.”

Roswitha looked to her shoulder and found that his talons had actually ripped her blouse and made her bleed. She had felt the strangest sensation before, but now that Roswitha looked at the blood, pain flooded the site. She groaned and forced herself to march forward to Professor Dumbledore’s desk. He muttered some healing spells and at once the pain was gone, and with another spell her blouse was repaired. Roswitha rubbed at her shoulder though, the pain still lingering, trying to convince her mind that she was alright, and it hadn’t even known something was wrong a moment ago. 

“Are you alright, my darling heart?” Pappa asked, pulling her close. “Should we go and see Madam Pomfrey?” 

“No, I’m alright,” said Roswitha, shaking her head. “Just a bit shocked, that’s all. I’ve never seen so much blood before. Fawkes has never done anything like that either.” 

Pappa kissed her cheek and looked distinctly over her shoulder as he said, “Well, perhaps that will teach a lesson not to taunt powerful creatures.” 

Professor Dumbledore looked back, eyes placid and serene. “Yes, dear boy, you have the right of it. And my most humble apology to you, Roswitha, for antagonizing Fawkes when he was in a position to harm you. Now, I imagine you wished to talk to me about something other than phoenix feces?” 

Roswitha snorted at the word “feces,” but managed to control herself as Pappa took a seat in front of Albus desk, and Roswitha took the seat next to him. “Yes,” said Pappa, “I know we discussed Roswitha’s occlumency lessons by letter, but I was wondering if we could discuss a little more in depth where she is in her development. As you might have guessed I did not have the easiest introduction to the subject.” 

Here, Dumbledore looked a little grave when he nodded. “I had guessed that -- Severus, too, did not have the easiest introduction to occlumency. If you need assistance with your shields, I would seek him out, for he will likely be a better teacher than I for you, Regulus. But Roswitha has the advantage of being unblemished -- aside from one poorly worded text, she had no experience with another invading her mind and therefore we were able to begin from the beginning.”

Pappa relaxed into his chair -- sort of like the way he did after he finished exercising, almost boneless and undone. “Good, that’s very good. I’m glad.”

Dumbledore made an easy smile. “We spent last term discussing mental invasion and misdirection. We are continuing on a similar theme this term of how to build natural shields and other defenses. We have also discussed a more practical element and a timeline on when to begin, with your approval, of course, Regulus.” 

“Practical?” Roswitha asked, piping up. She wanted to ask what Pappa’s introduction to occlumency had been, but she could guess it had not been pleasant. Instead, she resorted to asking about her own education. 

“Professor Dumbledore is talking about performing legilimency on you, my darling heart,” said Pappa, glancing at her fondly. “In something more than the honesty checks some of the professors do already.” 

“Oh,” said Roswitha, nodding. “I understand now. You said we would probably do that when my magic had developed more, right Professor?”

“Glad to know you were listening,” said Professor Dumbledore, quite dryly. 

Roswitha, for the very first time in her life, had the urge to make a rude, two fingered gesture. She did not -- Roswitha felt that Dumbledore probably wouldn’t have cared, at least in private, but Pappa would have been thoroughly scandalized. 

“If Roswitha’s magic grows as it has been,” Dumbledore continued, “then I would say that she would be ready for practice against a legilimens during her fifth year.”

“Fifth year?” said Pappa, blanching, his shoulders going tense again. “That soon?”

Dumbledore looked on him gently. “Peace, Regulus. I would not arrange such a thing lightly, nor without consent from you both. And, of course, it will all depend on her magical core and occlumency development.” 

Roswitha, also for the first time, felt like making a rude joke about her own development. She wondered, idle, how much longer the urge to make rude things would continue. “Say,” she said, instead of a joke, “can you tell what my magical core looks like by the color of my magic?” 

Dumbledore regarded her curiously, eyes still and pale. “What a curious question, dear girl. What brought you there?”

“Pappa taught all the second years a little bit of curse breaking today,” said Roswitha, smiling brightly at father. “And he showed us the color of two different spells.” 

“Really?” Dumbledore asked grin coming to his face. 

Pappa flushed and ducked her head. “Yes, Albus -- but you must let it go. I’ve already told you, I don’t want to teach at Hogwarts.” He grumbled a little. “Perhaps if you might have explained that my competition was Gilderoy Lockhart I would have taken you more seriously.”

Dumbledore glanced at Roswitha for a moment, before refocusing his attention on Pappa. “Next year your competition will be no one. And I may be looking at interference from the ministry.” 

Pappa furrowed his brow. “The ministry can’t interfere here -- Hogwarts is run by an independent board of governors.” 

“An independent board governors,” said Dumbledore, taking a sweet from his pocket and popping it into his mouth, “nearly three quarters of whom are closely affiliated with if not working directly in the ministry. Perhaps I am overthinking it though -- no auror or member of the education office wants to so much look at the defense position.”

Pappa sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “That just means if they do try to interfere, they’ll send some sort of bureaucrat that can’t teach and knows nothing about the dark arts. Remus Lupin.” 

Professor Dumbledore stopped sucking on his sweet. “What about him?”

“He’s back in Britain -- said he’s been in America for sometime, doing heaven knows what,” said Pappa, leaning back in the chair. “Sirius once said that Lupin could have gotten a mastery in defensive magic, but no one would take him on as an apprentice. Lupin’s a practical academic so he’s likely kept up his studies and would be a good choice for a candidate.” 

Dumbledore sat, considering Pappa’s advice before he said, “I don’t know that Remus will talk to me if I reach out to him.” 

Pappa smile, a tight line across his face. “That, Albus, is really not my problem. But if you are so desperate, have Professor McGonagall talk to him or Madam Pomfrey. Say, have you the time?” 

Dumbledore looked to the chain that hung on Pappa’s waist coat and connected to his pocket watch, but then up at the clock that stood against the wall. “It is half two.” 

“I had better go then,” said Pappa rising. “I need to make sure all of the other parents who are going back to London arrive safely to the entry hall.” 

“Yes, yes.” Dumbledore rose as well, offering his hand out for Pappa to shake. “It was quite brave of you, Regulus, to bring muggle parents to Hogwarts and to look after their welfare.”

Pappa tightly clasped Dumbledore’s hand. “Well, I just figured it was for the greater good.”

Dumbledore clasped Pappa just as tight. “That was poorly done, Regulus.”

“Yes, well, you can tell me all about it in a letter, Albus, I really must be going. Come along, darling heart.” 

Pappa offered out a hand to her, and Roswitha stood too. “See you later, Professor.” 

“Good day, Roswitha,” said Professor Dumbledore, nodding to her. 

As they left the office and journey to the entry hall, Roswitha thought for a moment about how familiar Dumbledore and Pappa seemed with one another. They were hardly cordial, but they appeared to be in correspondence. Yet, Professor Dumbledore had only come around their residence once to Roswitha’s knowledge.(Pappa had even suggested a dinner party with the Hogwarts faculty, at which Father had bulked so strongly the subject, they had never broached the subject again.) They didn’t seem to like one another to suggest they might be having an affair, so that left their correspondence to be about her. 

Still deep in thought, Roswitha almost ran right into her father as they came into the entry hall. 

“There you are,” Fathe rmurmered. 

“Hello, Father,’ said Roswitha. What on earth could Pappa and Professor Dumbledore be discussing in her regard? Was it simply about snakes?

Father raised a cool eyebrow in Papa’s general direction. “I’ve heard that we are engaged to dine at White Feather this evening.” 

They couldn’t only discuss her parselmouth, could they?

Pappa raised him a charming smile. “Are we? My, what a surprise.”

Did they know she was letting her friends guess about the secret?

“Regulus.”

She had let them continue, occasionally, as a study break or during games.

“Severus.” 

Father didn’t retort. 

Pappa huffed. “I was moments away from punching Lucius. Agreeing to dinner got me far away before I could.”

Father snorted. “Personally, supper would have been much more amusing if you had.” He came forward and kissed Pappa one and then again, with a shorter kiss. Someone — probably Menalaus or Mr. Dunbar — wolf whistled. “You will be making this up to me, Regulus,” Father declared. 

“I’ll enjoy finding out how,” said Pappa, licking his lips.

If Roswitha were paying attention, she would have booed or otherwise heckled this display of affection. But as it was, she found herself still deep in thought wondering what Pappa and Professor Dumbledore spoke of when they talked about her. 

Perhaps that is why she heard the voice so clearly, as she did not focus on what was right in front of her. 

_Ssooo many humansss_, came a soft voice from above. _Come clossser, come clossser, pleassse_

Roswitha’s eyes flew the ceiling, expecting some giant creature — but there was nothing. The ceiling as it normally was stood above them, and no one else had noticed a thing at all. 

“Roswitha?”

Roswitha looked down, meeting her pappa’s eye. “Are you alright, my darling heart?” he asked. 

“I thought I heard something,” she said, again looking around. 

Father brought a hand up to her forehead, then to her cheeks, feeling for fever. When he found none, he shook his head, saying, “I think someone is playing a trick on you child. Are you feeling well? Getting enough sleep?” 

Roswitha nodded to each question. She couldn’t hear anything else, and there seemed to be nothing there making noise. “Just hearing things it seems.” 

Both of her parents studied her a moment, muttering under her breath. Roswitha stayed still and breathed normally, for she knew they were casting diagnostic spells. When all of them came up normal, her parents frowned at her, but admitted they found nothing wrong. Taking note of the time, Pappa kissed her goodbye, and went with the other parents to portkey back to London. Father, though, marched her down to the infirmary, just to be sure. 

Madam Pomfrey sighed at the sight of them, but bade Roswitha to sit down on one of the hospital beds. “I don’t know why you brought her here, Severus,” said Pomfrey as she began the diagnostic spells. “I’m only going to do what I’m sure you’ve already done.” 

Sure enough, Madam Pomfrey gave her a clean bill of health ten minutes later. But she ended her pronouncement by telling Roswitha to return if she began hearing voices at regular intervals. Father huffed and puffed at this pronouncement, but at last let Roswitha go. “I suppose if I do not,” he said, “I shall not be ready to dine at White Feather to Narcissa’s satisfaction. But you are to follow those instructions _exactly_. Anything unusual, you come straight here or to Professor McGonagall.”

“Yes, Father,” said Roswitha. 

“Now, off to supper with you,” said Madam Pomfrey, waving her away. 

Roswitha went to supper and sat with her friends who talked about the visits from their parents or homework assignments, or running a fact check on Lockhart (surprisingly, Hermione was not alone on that last account).

“Ros are you listening?” Hermione asked for probably the third time that supper.

Roswitha flushed as she turned to her friend. “Sorry, just something on my mind. What’s the matter?’

“I caught your cousin hiding personal books in the library!” said Hermione, tsk’ing. “He pretended to let me read him the riot act, but really he just gave the book to Goyle and had him hide it somewhere else. Please, Ros, will you talk to them?”

Roswitha, despite her preoccupations, did go to visit Draco before supper ended. Draco rolled his eyes. “Well, _what_ else was I supposed to do with it? I was going on about how I wanted a diary this summer, so it was an early Christmas present from Father, I’m sure of it. But I nicked it from his study early. If I try to put it back there now, he’ll just find me out.”

“Sorry,” said Goyle with a shrug when Roswitha turned to him. “I can’t remember where I put it, all those books look the same you know.”

Roswitha rolled her eyes. “Pretending you have less with than you do is going to get you in trouble one of these days, Gregory.”

“If you say so,” Goyle replied with a hint of a smile.

Unable to do anything more, Roswitha turned back to the matter preoccupying her mind. Usually, when she heard voices no one else could hear, Hogwarts had something to do with it. 

Three in the morning seemed a rather dependable time for the castle to wish to communicate with her AND meant that no one would be in the common room. Roswitha crept down, wool jumper over her nightgown, dressing gown over that, and took a seat in front of the fireplace. She squared up her seating, then began her meditation exercises. 

Roswitha breathed in, counted to five and released her breath. She breathed in and breathed out as she imagined, in her mind a blank, white space, almost like a canvas. Roswitha began to fill it with grasses and ferns and rocks, and then stocks of heather grew and bloomed in seconds. Roswitha pictured herself in this setting, taking the heather, weaving into a crown. When she looked up from her work, a woman stood above her. 

The woman had scarlet red hair and sapphire blue eyes, and wore a yellow dress in a simple cut and a green cloak. “_You’re becoming very adept at this_,” said Hogwarts, rubbing her fingers together. Hogwarts sat next to Roswitha and also began weaving the heather into a crown. 

“I needed to talk to you,” said Roswitha, frowning. “Is there anything wrong at Hogwarts?” 

Hogwarts shook their head. “_No one is harmed, all are well between my walls_.” 

“If something were wrong, would you tell me?” Roswitha asked. 

“_You are the blood of my beginning_,” said Hogwarts, with a little humm. “_What you command, I must obey.”_

Roswitha frowned. “I don’t really like commanding people to do anything.”

“_You will need to learn_,” said Hogwarts, blithely, yet looking up at her with a stern glance. “_You will be a commander over a great many as your ancestor was before you. You must learn now — for I will not always be with you.” _

Roswitha sighed, but Hogwarts only placed the crown of Heather on her head. “Well then, tell me this,” said Roswitha. “Do you really talk to me because I’m the only one who can hear you?” 

“_You are the blood of my beginning_,” said Hogwarts with a wide smile. “_You laid claim in these halls as no one has for many years. You begin to understand what no one else has for many years_.” Hogwarts reached out and stroked their knuckles against Roswitha’s cheek. “_You begin to grow weak. Rest now.”_

Roswitha’s eyes snapped open and she found herself again in the Gryffindor common room in front of a dying fire. Part of her desired to slump over, but found it rather difficult as her joints and muscles had both gone stiff. With some effort, Roswitha rose and made her way back up to the dormitory, cursing, momentarily, that her room was at the very top. She thought, for a moment, to make Hogwarts carry her up the stairs, but that seemed like a frivolous waste of ability. Roswitha made it to the top of the stairs in time, collapsed in her bed and fell asleep. 

Roswitha did not sleep in the next morning, though after breakfast she did break off from her friends to go and take a nap. Thankfully, her rest came peacefully and without worry. If so many others were relaxed about the situation, Roswitha would not spend her time fretting over something she could not predict. She heard no more of the strange, new voice, after all, and Hogwarts had said there was no danger in the castle. Not to mention, Lockhart was enough of a nuisance that despising him took up much of her free think space. 

Regret set in on Halloween night. 


	4. The First Petrification

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh, has it been that long? I definitely didn't mean for that to happen -- I have the whole second book finished, so I'll try to stick to more regular posting from now on. Thanks for sticking with me!

Halloween came on a Saturday. 

Since there were no classes that day, festivities extended through the whole day starting at lunchtime. The ghosts put on plays, Sir Nicholas invited anyone who listened to his 500th death day party (Roswitha could not confirm, but she thought she saw the Professors drawing straws to go as there were to be quite a few students in attendance). The splendor seemed just as grand, if not grander than last year. Roswitha enjoyed it more, knowing that all her friends were by her side, and since there was no Professor Quirrell, there was no one to come screaming in about a troll (and therefore, no troll to combat). 

Everyone else seemed to share her spirits, bolstered by decorations, magical spectacle, and the food, of course. 

They staid cheerful, stuffing treats into their pockets and into Roswitha’s little basket (she thought to herself that if she could manage the spell work, they would make excellent gifts one of these years). Fred and George made a splendiforous set of transfigured bats rise from the blood pudding. After everyone stopped shrieking, they laughed and clapped for the trick as the twins bowed. 

The feast went later than a normal supper, until around eight, as they were all busy taking in the tricks and the treats. They exited in large part together, all walking toward various staircases to go to their dorms. And so everyone came upon the scene all at once. 

The cheer did not die all at once. At first, it seemed like just another prank. A group of all house members stood together around Mrs. Norris and Mr. Filch, who both stood stiff in the hall, the floors wet and slick. At first it just appeared that Mr. Filch had grown so angry about the mess that he had frozen in place. But then Colin Creevy looked up with his big doe eyes and said, “I don’t think he’s breathing.” 

Roswitha and Dean were close enough that they pushed their way forward to grab Colin, Ginny, and Luna from among those students who had found Mr. Filch and pull them away. The professors began moving through the crowd as well, when they realized the severity of the situation. Professor Dumbledore arrived there first, and pushed Roswitha away, Colin in hand. “Go along, children,” he said, his mouth set firm. “I don’t think this is something any of you should witness.” Then raising his voice, he added, “Prefects, divide out your houses and return to your dormitories.” 

Percy Weasley appeared, taking Ginny by the hand, and then into his arms when she became too upset to move, carrying her and directing all the Gryffindors toward the staircases. Roswitha held Colin’s hand firmly in her own as they lumped together with the Ravenclaws, not letting them stop, even when Colin started to cry a little when began to divide on the staircases and had to send Luna off with her own prefect. “It’ll be alright, Colin,” 

“I’ve… I’ve never seen a… a… a dead person before,” Colin whimpered and promptly became dead weight as he cried and refused to move.

Roswitha fancied herself a strong person, but Colin wasn’t even a head shorter than her. He would be cumbersome to carry if not uncomfortable. Someone tapped her shoulder, and she looked to find Oliver standing over her. 

“Up you come,” said Oliver to Colin, putting his hands around the younger boy, and lifting him into his arms. Colin didn’t fight him, just buried his face in Oliver’s shoulder to cry. “I’ve got him, now, lass. You run along.” 

Roswitha nodded and rejoined the throng as they made their way up the staircases and through the portrait hole. The seventh year prefects had everyone make themselves comfortable in the common room (as comfortable as everyone could be with twelve crying first years, and everyone else who felt like crying). Roswitha piled together with her friends as they waited. They did not have to wait long before Professor McGonagall came to explain. 

“Petrified?” grew as a murmur among their house, before McGonagall leveled them with a long look so that she might continue. 

“As I was saying,” she said. “We do not know, at this time, what caused the petrification. Rest assured, when the perpetrators are identified, they will be punished to the full extent of Hogwarts by laws and wizarding laws themselves.”

No one felt much like celebrating after that. it was one thing to prank Mr. Filch with a fanged frisbee or a dung bomb. But it was another entirely to petrify him in such a way that would require mature mandrakes to unpetrify him.

"And you know," said Neville, frowning. "Mandrake parts don't keep. You can only use them for about two weeks after they mature and then they're too far gone to be any good. It's not as if you can just buy mandrake at this time of year, they're long rotted out."

"Poor Mr. Filch," said Fay, sniffling, tears streaming down her face. "He'll be petrified almost a whole year -- what a nightmare to go to sleep one place and wake up in another -- months gone!"

A nightmare indeed.

Roswitha kept turning over in her mind the voice she had heard several weeks ago. She turned it over, even now as the loud buzz of the common room lit up her mind with the horrible details and even more horrible speculation of what had happened to Mr. Filch. It had given her goose pimples at the time, the voice, but at the reassurance of others she had let it go, put it from her mind. Never could she have imagined that something might go this wrong.

If only she had said something more or done something more -- none of this might be happening. Filch and Mrs. Norris would be fine, the whole school wouldn't be terrified at what might happen next should no one be caught. It was her fault. She should have done SOMETHING. It was her fault. Said something more, anything more. Her fault, her fault, her fault.

The hum of the common room which had ensconced her until now fell away as her mind thrummed the single thought over and over like an ever beating drum. She couldn't she her friends, feel them shake her, or hear them call her name -- her mind became so focused on her single thought that it was all she could do to think it. That was wrong, something was wrong. Someone was right next to her ear, saying, "Breathe, breathe, deep breath in, hold, let it out."

With the voice commanding her, large, lungfuls of breath entered her body, her pulse began to slow down (how had it become so fast?), and Roswitha's mind cleared enough that she could see Percy Weasley's face against the canvas-like, blank white that she used to begin her occlumensy exercises.

"What's the matter?" she asked Percy.

Percy sighed with relief. "You panicked -- you wouldn't talk to us for a bit, couldn't even hear us it seemed like. Keep breathing Roswitha -- you gave everyone a fright."

Roswitha breathed.

The rest of the canvas was blank though, around Percy's face -- what should she imagine to fill it? The orchard? No, Percy didn't like to fly. The pond then.

Roswitha imagined in stages, as Percy's voice reminded her to breath. First the colors -- the grey blue of the sky and the green blue of the water. The reeds sticking up out of the pond, going yellow with the sun's heat, how soft they could feel if you rubbed past them -- how hot the sun felt on her body, how cool the mud between her toes as she waded in. There was the call over head, a bird's cry, there was a call from below, the croak of a frog.

When she finished the scene, Roswitha realized they couldn't be at the Burrow, in the nearby pond. They had been months ago, but they had been in the Gryffindor common room before her panic. Roswitha took a deep breath and let the scene fade from her mind. She let her mind's eye close and her physical eyes see.

They weren't in the common room. It looked like they were in an office but they were still in Hogwarts. Her face was wet. Why? Had she been crying. Roswitha pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and began to wipe at her face. "I'm alright now, Percy," she said, drying herself off.

"You're sure?" Percy asked even as he relaxed his shoulders. "No one could reach you -- we called your name and you wouldn't answer. Professor Dumbledore even had to go and get Professor Snape and Dumbledore."

Roswitha shivered -- Father would probably be distraught to hear of what happened to her.

Percy, though, now appeared calm and collected since it seemed like the worst had passed. He clicked his fingers twice and a house elf appeared.

"What is the students be needing?" the house elf asked, cocking its head to one side.

"Could we have two cups of hot chocolate please?" Percy asked, nodding to the elf. "We've both had a bit of a startle."

"And tea for the Professors," said Roswitha, as they had had a startle too and would be in need of a cup soon, even after seeing all the commotion with Roswitha had calmed down.

The elf nodded to them and popped away. Roswitha clicked her mouth shut -- she had not been able to say thank you or ask for the elf's name. When she did close her mouth, she realized she felt quite tired. Not a normal, end of day sort of tired, either. Roswitha felt as if she had played a Quidditch match, then gone for a long run, and then stolen the Philosopher's Stone through a second round of obstacles. The tiredness sank into her very bones.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Percy asked, moving from sitting in front of her, to sitting next to her on the settee in McGonagall's office. "Whatever it is that made you panic."

Roswitha rand her fingers through her long, black hair, trying not to yawn. "I... heard a voice, a few weeks ago."

"A new one?" Percy asked, toying with a plait in her hair, brushing a finger over the ends. Roswitha had seen him do this to Ginny over the summer, and Roswitha suspected it felt nice to him.

"Yes," said Roswitha. "It wasn't like the castle at all. I even asked Hogwarts about it and they said they didn't know of anything going wrong at present. But I just can't help but feel like they're connected -- and if I had paid more attention, what happened tonight might not have happened."

Percy hummed in thought for a moment before he said, "have you talked to anyone else about this?"

"My parents were there when I heard the voice," said Roswitha nodding.

The elf returned with a tray which had both a tea pot and a chocolate pot, as well as six cups to use. The elf settled the tray on the table next to the settee and popped away again without a word.

Percy poured them each a cup of chocolate. "And what did your parents say about the new voice?"

"They cast a bunch of diagnostic charms on me," said Roswitha as she sipped her chocolate. "And when they found that nothing was wrong with me, Father took me to Madam Pomfrey to be sure. And then whens he found nothing as well, Father said if I ever heard something like that I again, I was to go straight to Madam Pomfrey or Professor McGonagall."

"And have you?" Percy asked, sipping his own chocolate. "Heard it again, I mean."

Roswitha shook her head. "I can't explain it, though, it just feels like.. lik ethe two events are one happening spread out over time."

"Oh, and you have to be the savior of the world?" Percy asked, sarcasm dripping from his every word. "Roswitha, I love you like a little sister, but you do get on my nerves sometimes."

"That's probably because you love me like a sister," said Roswitha, leaning her head on is shoulder.

Percy slung an arm around her "True. Listen: you are twelve-years-old. You are not meant to have the solution to any of the world's problems, except the ones set as your homework. Even if you had information proceeding this attack -- more than just hearing a voice once -- you only obligation is to tell a professor. Which you did, even if he is your father. You did all you could, Roswitha. Maybe even more that that. It's good that you feel a responsibility toward others -- it's what makes you a good leader. But you can't fix everything."

Roswitha pouted over the fact, even though Percy was right. She did not have long to pout, however, as Father burst in the room followed swiftly by Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall. Then he saw the tea and chocolate and realized things weren't quite as wrong as they had been, and he collapsed in front of her, all momentum drained from him.

Roswitha set aside her chocolate and engaged in one of their rare hugs. Father squeezed her tightly and did not let go for some minutes even as Percy began to explain things to Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore as best he could. "You need to stop scaring me," Father whispered to her.

"I'm sorry," said Roswitha, burring her face in his shoulder. "I really didn't mean to this time, I promise."

Father finally pulled back from her, but he did not fully let go, not even when Professor Dumbledore said, "Severus, I will need to examine her."

Professor McGonagall coughed, saying, "Exemplary work, Mr. Weasley, we'll talk more in the morning," as she shuffled Percy out the door.

"I can't agree to that," Father hissed as McGonagall shuffled Percy out the door. "I'm not LEGALLY her stepfather, Albus, I can't give you permission to perform an act of mindreading."

"You are her father in all but that," said Professor Dumbledore, quite calmly. "And Regulus would trust your discretion in this situation."

"And if you feel he wouldn't, Severus," said Professor McGonagall, "I will give my consent as in loco parentis."

Roswitha tugged on Father's robe, drawing his attention to her. "It's alright, Father," she said. "I'll give my own consent for Professor Dumbledore to read my mind. He won't hurt me -- you know that."

Father nodded, shakily, saying, "I know, I know. Albus wouldn't mean to hurt you in a hundred years. But he knows as well as I do that it could trigger the same episode again."

Roswitha hadn't known that, but she still said, "I know, Father. But Professor Dumbledore and I will be very careful. No more trouble, I promise."

Father could only look at her for a moment, his dark eyes swollen with tears, before he turned back to Dumbledore. "Alright, go ahead."

Dumbledore summoned two large, soft cushions, and directed Roswitha to kneel. They were not quite the same height now, but much closer than they had been standing up. Dumbledore placed his hands on her shoulders, long fingers curling around them in a gentle hold. "Please relax, Roswitha, and let me in."

"Yes sir," said Roswitha, nodding.

Dumbledore cast no spell, but he looked deep into her eyes, and Roswitha knew in an instant he was in her mind. She imagined them meeting in the landscape she had designed when speaking to Hogwarts. Dumbledore chuckled as he reached down to pluck up a heather stalk. "I do believe I asked for you to let me in."

"Oh," said Roswitha, looking around her. "This is what happens when I let other people in."

Professor Dumbledore hummed, then asked, "Does it start this way or end up this way?"

"Ends up this way," said Roswitha, reaching out to take his hand.

Dumbledore took her hand and squeezed. "Show me where you start, dear girl."

Roswitha took a deep breath and imagined the landscape falling away until they were back to the blank canvas.

"You have unusually good command of your mind," said Dumbledore, as he stared at the canvas. "even for one who has studied occlumensy. Can you imagine for me, dear girl, a door through which we can go."

"Depends on where we're going," said Roswitha, wrinkling her nose.

"Deep into your mind," said Professor Dumbledore, as calm and clear as ever.

Roswitha had been to every corner of her mind at one point or another, she supposed, so she imagined a door, and one appeared against the white. "Shall we go?" Roswitha asked.

"I believe we should," said Dumbledore.

They went forward together, Roswitha's hand wrapping around the door and opening it up. 

What deep in her mind looked like was a hall that could have come from Menaçant. This one, though, was covered with portraits and doors. The portraits appeared to be memories, and the doors would lead to other places with other memories. They walked for some time, going far back into her mind, until, eventually, they came to a locked door through which they could not process.

"Is this supposed to be here?" Roswitha asked.

“It's your mind, dear girl," said Professor Dumbledore, smiling at her. "If i had to guess, I would say we are far enough back in your memory that this is a repressed part of your childhood. We cannot open the door because there is a part of you that does not wish for the door to be open. In time, though, we may wiggle it loose."

"Or pick the lock," Roswitha suggested, looking at the keyhole.

Dumbledore chuckled. "That is certainly one way around it, yes. Well, I see that you are not injured, in any way discernible by this incident. Shall we return, dear girl?"

Roswitha nodded, firmly, ready to go back.

Dumbledore, smiling, simply squeezed her hand and then Roswitha blinked, finding herself not in a long gallery of portraits but back in McGonagall's office.

"How long?" Dumbledore asked, rising to his feet with McGonagall's assistance.

"Only two minutes thirty seconds," said Father, clicking his pocket watch closed. He helped Roswitha up as well, and for such a short time, she was awfully stiff.

McGonagall transfigured one of the wood chairs in front of her desk into a comfortable lounge chair, and helped Dumbldore settle in before transfiguring the other for herself. Father helped Roswitha settle back on the settee and pressed her cup of chocolate into her hands. Father served up tea for McGonagall before turning back to Dumbledore saying, "Tea or chocolate?"

"So, you don't ask me?" McGonagall asked, even as she drank from her cup.

"You don't like chocolate, Minerva," said Father, rolling his eyes.

Dumbledore chuckled. "Chocolate, please, Severus. And Roswitha, I gathered when I was in your mind that you had something you wished to discuss."

"Er, yes." Now that she was in front of Professor Dumbledore, her Father and her head of house, Roswitha felt a little ridiculous. "It's only just -- my parents would have told you about the voice I heard a few weeks ago?"

Dumbledore and McGonagall nodded.

"Did you hear it again?" Father asked.

Roswitha shook her head. "No, it's only just -- I can't explain why, but I think that voice is connected to the events of tonight."

Professor McGonagall frowned. "Is this something like what you told me last year? About the castle speaking to you?"

Roswitha shook her head. "No, I asked Hogwarts, and they said everything was well when I asked. This is something different. And I..." she sighed. "Oh, I can't explain it -- it's just a feeling. I just... I didn't want to let it go unsaid."

Dumbledore nodded to her, looking very serious indeed. "I thank you for your concern, dear girl. If you hear this voice again, I do want you to still go straight to Madam Pomfrey. But we will discuss any further appearances of this voice most seriously."

Roswitha relaxed, her worries falling out of her and taking her stiff muscles with. “Thank you, sir,” said Roswitha.

Dumbledore smiled brightly at her. “You’re welcome, dear girl.”

Father seemed to be bending around her, like a snake, but also murmured his appreciation. Professor McGonagall merely watched the exchange, however, sipping her tea and looking rather pensive. After a moment, she said, “Miss Black, do you feel well enough to return to the dormitory, or would you like a little more time with your father?”

Roswitha, at being forced to acknowledge her fatigue, felt it threaten to overtake her. “I probably should go to bed,” she said, which only made her want to burrow into Father’s black robes. “But you could walk me back to the dormitory if it would make you feel better.”

“I don’t know where it is, child,” said Father, pressing a kiss to her head. “But if Minerva wouldn’t mind, you look ready to fall asleep on your feet.”

Professor McGonagall shook her head and set down her tea cup. “Not at all.”

“Why don’t you know where the dorm is?” Roswitha asked, as she set down her chocolate cup and rose, slowly, to her feet.

Father shrugged. “It’s for your safety and mine. Only the heads of houses know where dormitories are.”

Roswitha turned to Dumbledore. “You used to be in Gryffindor.”

“Sir,” said both McGonagall and Father as one.

“Sir,” Roswitha repeated after a beat.

“I did,” said Professor Dumbledore, nodding, the twinkle returned to his eye. “And when I first came to teach at Hogwarts, I was head of Gryffindor House. But as Headmaster, to remain impartial, I know where the precise locations of none of the dorms are.”

“How?” Roswitha asked, wobbling ever so slightly. “You know everything that goes on in the castle.”

Professor McGonagall brushed up against, her, holding Roswitha up. “It is due to a spell called the Fidelius Charm, Miss Black. You can ask Professor Flitwick about it at length, and I am sure he would be delighted to explain. But for not, you are swaying and likely to go down at any moment. I am not above using a levitation charm you.”

Roswitha nodded, though glum about lack of understanding. She kissed her Father goodbye and left the office with Professor McGonagall. Behind them, Roswitha heard Father offering to walk the headmaster back to his quarters.

Thankfully, McGonagall’s office was not far from Benvegnuda’s portrait, so they did not have long to walk. Roswitha did stumble over the threshold, though, prompting Professor McGonagall to ask, “Will you be able to make it up to your room on your own?”

Roswitha looked to the ground, not because she was embarrassed but because she thought her feet were moving, but they weren’t. When she looked up, Hermione had appeared, as if by apparation. “I’ll take care of her, Professor McGonagall.”

“Very good, Miss Granger,” said McGonagall, nodding to her. “Ten points to Gryffindor for looking out for your own. I’ll see you both anon.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Roswitha muttered as Hermione wrapped an arm around her and walked with her up to the Gryffindor dorm.

“Technically now is Sunday and tomorrow is Monday,” said Hermione.

Roswitha opened her mouth to protest, but all that came out was a yawn.

Their year mates had all waited up for her, and, after some generally worrying, they all saw how tired Roswitha was, and instead helped her get ready for bed.

“You’re alright, though, aren’t you?” Lavender asked, as she helped pull on Roswitha’s night dress.

Roswitha nodded. “Dumbledore checked himself.” She yawned again.

“I feel like my mum asking this,” said Parvati from where she was brushing out Roswitha’s hair. “But why must you always get into so much trouble?” Parvati laid aside the brush and braided Roswitha’s hair into a single plait and tied it off with a piece of fabric.

“Comes natural,” Roswitha muttered. She smiled, or tried to, at her friends. “Thanks, I… I…” she tried to say that she couldn’t have done it without them, but yawns kept interrupting her.

The other girls seemed to sense what she meant, as they smiled, brought her over to her bed and tucked her in, Cal, the teddy bear Ron had given her tucked under one arm. Roswitha fell asleep as Fay murmured, “Good night sweet princess, may winged angels sing thee to thy rest.”

Though she swore she heard Hermione add, “Horatio said that as Hamlet was dying, you know.”

“I didn’t!” said Fay, but bright and pleased at having learned something new. “We should put on a play.”

Roswitha slept deeply that night – she did not dream or speak to castles. Instead, she filled herself with rest, and her magic replenished itself as the river replenishes itself from the snowmelt in spring. She did not notice the passage of time, except for when someone began poking her cheek. Roswitha swatted at them, but when they did not go away, she opened her eyes.

It turned out it was not a person, but a thing. A note in the shape of a paper airplane was poking her, and Roswitha grasped it firmly from the air and opened it.

“Dear Miss Black,” read a pretty, curling script. “I think we ought to have a talk – I believe I have discovered what may be holding you back in transfiguration. Will you come to tea at my office around three this afternoon? You may write your response on the back of this parchment and fold it back up. When you have it will return to me. It shall not hurt my feelings if you decline, as I understand you will be quite exhausted today. Sincerest regards, Professor McGonagall.”

Roswitha blinked several times at the note before she decided to get out of bed.

Everyone else had gone already – it was half past eight said the clock on the wall shaped like a cat’s head that Fay had bought over the summer. Breakfast would be on in the great hall. Roswitha did still feel a little tired, but mostly better. She figured a nap after lunch might be in order, but she could always have someone wake her before it was tea time. Roswitha wrote a short reply on the back and folded it back up. When she had completed the folds, the airplane zipped out of the room and down the staircase.

“I wonder if she’ll teach us that charm in class,” said Roswitha.

She dressed in plain day clothes, which were a bit more comfortable than her school uniform, brushed out her hair and headed down for breakfast.

Pride 98 were all on their feet in seconds when they saw her, but Draco beat them too the punch nearly tackling her with a hug. “What on earth?” she asked him.

“Don’t ever do something like that again!” Draco demanded, hugging her more tightly. “I refuse to be the only child of our generation!”

“What about Nym?” Roswitha asked, hugging him back and hooking her chin over his shoulder.

Draco didn’t get a chance to answer as Dean had declared, “Group hug!” and all the other Gryffindors in their year crowded around them and joined in on the hug. Draco suddenly became very pale, but Roswitha only held him close and enjoyed the presence of her friends all around her. There were wolf whistles spread among the hall, but still they held one for a goodly few minutes. Percy had to at last call out, “For goodness sake, come and let her eat!” before everyone let go.

“This never happened,” Draco grumbled, glowering at them, as he stalked back to the Slytherin table.

“I hope Colin got a picture of that,” said Ron, slinging his arm around Roswitha’s shoulder. “You alright, Ros?”

Roswitha nodded. “Still a little tired, but nothing compared to last night. Could do with a nip before it all gets away from us.”

They went with her to the Gryffindor table, pushing all manner of food Roswitha’s way. Roswitha tucked in heartily, quietly grateful that her friends refrained from asking just what had happened last night, as she wouldn’t have been able to eat if she were explaining. There was only just enough time left at breakfast for her to eat and little else

When she had eaten though, putting a few scones and oranges and sausages in a napkin and wrapping it up for later, Roswitha stood and found a much larger following as she left the hall.

“Year meeting?” Susan asked, appearing at Roswitha’s elbow.

Roswitha shrugged, figuring what she had to say would just get around anyway. She rather it came straight from her. “Alright,” she said.

The Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors walked up to the clubhouse together, Ravenclaws lagging just behind. The Slytherins, though, arrived one at a time, five to ten minutes after everyone had already gotten settled.

“We’ve really got to teach you lot subtlety,” said Pansy as she took her seat, pulling an embroidery hoop from her bag and beginning to sew.

“Wouldn’t it be unsubtle if the Gryffindors didn’t go everywhere together though?” Parvati asked, leaning over to see what Pansy was sewing. “Since we do people might think we’re up to something if we don’t.”

Pansy displayed a garden scene for everyone to see. The girls all ooh’d and ahh’d at it – the boys didn’t, but if pressed they would think it was cool. “Well, you don’t go _everywhere_ together. Done properly, no one would suspect anything at all.”

Draco entered then and took his seat, filling in their forty-person table. “Okay,” he said. “What exactly happened last night?” he asked.

“With me, or with Mr. Filch?” Roswitha asked.

“Start with you,” said Morag MacDougal, pointing at her as people set their notebooks and things that they would normally use to take notes at these meeting. “Then the latter.”

Roswitha took a deep breath and explained to the best of her ability what had happened to her – her panic had led her to get a little trapped in her own mind, but with Percy’s help, she had gotten out of it. “Professor Dumbledore examined me, though, and found I was alright.”

Theodore Nott blinked impishly. “What like a nurse’s examine?”

Some of the other boys tittered, but rolled her eyes. “He examined my _mind_, Theodore. Don’t be gross, he’s a teacher.”

Theodore only shrugged. “it’s been known to happen – not here, of course, but you never know until you do.”

Roswitha rolled her eyes. “Well, with regards to Mr. Filch then.” She paused to see if anyone else would raise any objections to her health. When they did not, Roswitha continued. “Everyone was told he was petrified, yes?”

Everyone at the table nodded – the secretaries of their group took up their pens and pencils again, taking down everything that was said and done.

“Did anyone understand _how_ he was petrified?” Su asked, frowning.

“Professor Snape was very purposefully vague,” said Millicent, frowning. With a shrug she added, “I’m betting that means that the professors don’t know much at this point.”

They were all quiet for a moment before Justin sunk in his chair saying, “Well, fuck.”

“Justin!” Ernie cried, eyes widening.

“Well!” said Justin. “What am I supposed to say? My parents are muggles, Ernie – we don’t have petrification in the muggle world. Even if we did, I’m pretty sure they’ll pull me from the school if anyone finds out about this. What will I do then? I’ll be a wizard with a year and a quarter of education and no way to learn anything more until I’m seventeen. Then they’ll ship me off to Eton, and I’ll be a year and a half behind everyone to boot.”

Everyone, especially the muggleborn children in the room, began to shrink back at his words.

Draco only frowned though. “It’s dangerous to _completely_ interrupt your training though. Surely, they’ll understand that, won’t they?”

“What if they do?” Justin asked, rolling his eyes. “I’ll still have to leave Hogwarts – what then?”

Roswitha wanted to tell him that there _were_ other schools he could attend – but that was a little beside the point at the moment. “I don’t think they’ll be telling the parents anything at this point,” she said, slowly. “The adults think that the petrification was a prank – plenty of people prank Mr. Filch after all.”

Hermione looked at her, brows slightly raised, frown marring her mouth. “This is different though.”

“Yes,” Roswitha agreed.

“So, what do you think happened, Roswitha?” said Susan, frowning as well.

Roswitha answered honestly, “I don’t know, not completely.”

Hannah turned to Susan. "Maybe you should just say what you've found out."

Susan nodded and from her pocket she pulled a thick sheaf of parchment. "After the pixie incident, I owled the department of education at the ministry, to see on what standards they base the OWLs and the NEWTs. Madam Marchbanks was really kind and sent me back so much information on what we should know. Thankfully, even if Quirrell was a bit of a lousy lecturer, he covered all the right material, so we're not really that far behind."

"But Lockhart's making a mess of things," Ernie muttered moodily. 

All of Hufflepuff, who were usually the first to see the good in anyone, hummed in unhappy agreement. 

Susan passed the letter from Madam Marchbanks to Morag and Su, who then passed it to Pansy and Daphne who passed it to Roswitha and Dean. "I've already made copies and passed them around to the upper years, and, well, Hufflepuff was thinking that we might try to make up the defense classes together?"

Everyone, even the Ravenclaws, balked momentarily at the thought of extra work for a class. But... Roswitha turned it over in her mind -- the OWLs did seem so far away since they were still more than three and a half years away. If they kept getting rubbish professors, though, or professors who maybe didn't teach what they needed to know... "It'll certainly be harder to make up three or four years of work in a year if we wait until fifth year," she muttered. 

It seemed the rest of the year was, grudgingly coming to the same conclusion. Hermione rose from her seat and pulled down a schedule she had posted on the clubhouse noticeboard. "It looks like we have Wednesday afternoons and Thursday Mornings completely clear of classes. Are there any other activities on those days and times?"

As all other years had Thursday morning free up to sixth year (and not everyone took NEWT Transfiguration), it was a popular time to hold clubs and other extra curricular activities. 

"I motion for first block on Wednesday, then," said Roswitha after all the fanfare died down. "Can I have a second." 

"I'll second," said several people from all houses. 

"Show of hands for all in favor?" Roswitha asked. Every hand in the room rose, though some were more reluctant than others. As a measure of good practice, Roswitha asked for any opposition or abstinence, though there was none. "Motion passes," she said with a little sigh of relief -- they boxed on the fourth hour of every day, so it would have been a pain to have the make up class then. "So, did we want to take turns teaching or..." Roswitha trailed off as everyone looked at her with certain smiles on their faces -- the sort of smiles that said they all knew something they didn't. "What?"

"Ros, you've got to be kidding," said Dean, still with a bright smile. "You're the best at magical theory in our year, and the best at defense." 

Roswitha blinked -- _she_ didn't think of herself as being the best at anything. She read a lot about magical theory because she didn't understand theories about casting as well as she did theories about potions. And, well, _maybe_ she knew more defensive magic than the others because Pappa was a cursebreaker, and Father had special interests in defensive magic (he was probably as good at defense as he was at potions). Come to think of it, Roswitha realized, they had been teaching her defensive spells even before they set the assignment they had this past summer. 

Still, Roswitha flushed as she asked, "You want _me_ to be a teacher?" 

"You are the best in our year," said Millicent, with a little grumble. 

"Except at transfiguration," said Neville, teasing. 

Roswitha rolled her eyes while everyone tittered. "I'll teach you what I can," she said at last. "I don't know if I'll be any good at it."

"You'll be loads better than Lockhart," said Ron, quite firmly. 

"Yeah, cos'," said Draco, grinning. "Take a little credit." 

Roswitha rolled her eyes at him and pulled out her wand. As much as she wanted to curse Draco, instead, she pointed her wand at Madam Marchbank's letter casting, "_Geminio_," With the parchment duplicated, she passed the original letter back to Susan. "Give me another week to study this, I don't think I'll be ready by this Wednesday." 

"Shirking duties already, prof?" Vincent Crabbe mumbled. Everyone heard, though, and giggled. 

Roswitha giggled too, because, well, it was funny, and she really shouldn't take herself that seriously. "Well, alright, I'll come up with something to teach." 

Everyone liked this idea, which was probably for the best. After all, with someone running around petrifying people, even as a prank, they needed to be prepared to defend themselves. 

Roswitha ended up taking a short nap before lunch, eating twice what she normally would, then taking another nap after lunch, and woke up in time for tea still hungry. _Is this what magical exhaustion feels like?_ she wondered as she made her way down to Professor McGonagall's office. The door stood ajar, but Roswitha knocked anyway.

Professor McGonagall looked up from where she was marking essays at her desk and said, "Ah, Miss Black, please come in." 

Roswitha entered and made herself comfortable on the settee before which set a full tea service. Professor McGonagall rose from behind her desk and sat down in one of the arm chairs she had transfigured the night before. "Do you take your tea like your father? Honey and a little cream?"

"Yes, please," said Roswitha, nodding. 

As Professor McGonagall prepared a cup, she motioned for Roswitha to help herself to the meat pies.

Roswitha did help herself and took a long draught of tea when Professor McGonagall gave her the cup. She then demurred, shyly, saying, “Apologies, Professor, I’ve been really hungry today.”

“Perfectly fine,” said McGonagall, nodding. “You are growing at this age, after all, and you did quite the amount of magic yesterday – advanced magic no less.”

Roswitha nodded along, for it quite confirmed her thoughts anyway. “Thank you for your understanding then.”

Professor McGonagall nodded in return. “You’re quite welcome. Well, I have never been one for small talk, so I shall come to the point. I believe I know why you suffer in Transfiguration class but do perfectly well everywhere else.”

“You do?” Roswitha asked.

“Yes,” said Professor McGonagall, shortly. “I believe you do not trust me.”

Roswitha blinked – that could not be right. She trusted Professor McGonagall about as much as any professor, save maybe her father. “You do?” she asked after a moment, unable to puzzle it out.

“Oh yes.” A short frown appeared on Professor McGonagall’s face. “I cannot imagine why you wouldn’t, but you confessed a fear to Professor Dumbledore last night without hesitation. Your admission gave me pause, as did Albus’ reaction to you. He treats you as a… well, perhaps not an _equal_. You are still many years his junior in terms of education, notwithstanding the obvious point of age. But you trust one another, I can see that, and I believe it has helped you learn occlumency much more readily than you may have at another time or with another teacher.”

Roswitha wrinkled her nose, digesting the theory presented to her and taking another bite of meat pie for good measure. McGonagall’s supposition made sense, certainly. As far as she knew, Roswitha was Professor Dumbledore’s only direct student, and they had occlumency sessions one-on-one, as there was no one else studying under him. As such, their relationship was more… lax than with any of her other professors, and that _included_ Father. Professor Dumbledore had been appropriate with her always, of course, but no other adult, let alone a professor, made dung jokes to make her laugh. Roswitha highly doubted it was in McGonagall’s nature to do so. “I see your point, Professor,” said Roswitha after a moment of thought. “But how, then, to rectify the situation?”

“To be perfectly honest, I am unsure,” said McGonagall as she nibbled on her own meat pie. “But, I suppose we shall simply have to give each other the best go that we can, and in understanding that neither of us is going out of the way to make harm or be obtuse, perhaps a little more trust can form.”

“That seems fair,” said Roswitha. And it did. She never had thought, at the forefront of her mind that McGonagall was going out of her way to make things difficult for Roswitha. Perhaps there had been some small interaction, one that Roswitha could not presently recall. “Shall we shake on it?” she offered, setting down her teacup, and offering out her hand.

McGonagall did the same and they had an honest shake.

Tea went rather smoothly from there. Roswitha had another cup and a mince pie and asked about a portrait on Professor McGonagall’s wall. McGonagall talked about it at length, before letting Roswitha go to attend to homework or to rest, giving her a stern warning that if she were still exhausted tomorrow, she should go to the infirmary. To that suggestion, Roswitha agreed before heading back to her dorm.

She felt a little tired again, but nothing so bad that she could not sit down and tackle the Herbology essay due at the start of Tuesday’s class. Then, since she had stopped keeping track of what Lockhart assigned, and she had read up on the necessary goblin wars for history of magic, Roswitha reviewed her DADA notebook to find something worthwhile to teach. She settled on the shield charm, which they had yet to cover in charms class and, according to the curriculum sent by Madam Marchbanks, they ought to learn around this time. Roswitha had learned it over the summer, thanks to her parents’ defense assignment. She had spent a rather memorable afternoon defending herself from water balloons that Dean had brought over.

Roswitha grinned and began to write out a lesson plan.

Perhaps a half hour later, the other girls wandered into the dorm, depositing books on desks and greeting her.

“We thought McGonagall ate you,” said Sophie, flopping on her bed. They still had a half hour until dinner.

“No,” said Roswitha, shrugging. “I just came back here to work on some homework and be by myself for a little bit. What was everyone else up to?”

“Hermione’s making schedules again,” said Lavender as she tossed her stuffed unicorn at Hermione’s face.

Hermione let it hit her nonplussed. “I want to see how many of the Lockhart books I can fact check by the end of the year. Some of the Ravenclaws want to do work as well, but they all have extra projects that they’ve already committed to.”

Roswitha held out her hand and made a grabbing motion.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but passed over the piece of paper she had been penciling in with figures and dates. Lockhart had assigned them seven books worth of reading (with no actual readings on the syllabus, mostly because he had not written a syllabus from what they could tell). As Hermione was keen to back up her claims with at least two other sources, she thought it might take her a week to get through a single chapter, trying to pin point all the facts and back them up with other books. She had scheduled out reasonable (reasonable by average standards, even, not Hermione standards) times for reading checking books against books, and had come up short four books by the end of the year.

Roswitha looked up and found the five other girls staring at her. “What?”

“I know that look,” said Fay. “It’s the look that says: I have an idea. Spill.”

“Well.” Roswitha pursed her lips. “Part of what makes me so good at defense, and magical theory, is how I research things. And we all hate Lockhart, but to prove to the world he’s a fraud will take some research, so… why not combine the two.”

Hermione’s eyes lit up with the force of a thousand suns, while Parvati and Lavender covered their eyes and groaned.

“Oh please let me do the schedule?” asked Hermione, her eyes growing wide, hands clasped together in supplication.

Roswitha looked to the other girls in their group. “Objections?”

“I refuse to read more than one extra book per week,” said Lavender, firmly. “You’re great, Mi, really you are, but you make connections much more easily than other people do.”

Hermione hummed. “Well, there’s seven books and forty of us. We could have about five or six people per book work on a chapter per two weeks?” Hermione frowned as she counted the weeks left in the year. “It almost figures, there’s about fifteen chapters per book, but I also didn’t include any of June since that’s exam time. But if we did it that way you would only read books on that same subject which would make it easier as you’re not having to read that many extra books.”

“Will we get to pick our topic?” Parvati asked, narrowing eyes.

“Maybe,” Roswitha cut in – she liked Hermione’s idea and it did not cause too much extra work for them. “But I think it would be better if we did it on a lots system. That way everyone gets their own fair shake.”

Parvati huffed. “Be reasonable, why don’t you. It seems alright to me – especially since Lockhart doesn’t actually have us doing any assignments.”

With the other girls agreeing to Hermione and Roswitha’s scheme, Roswitha thought that she just might have something worthwhile. 

After a little help from the Weasley twins, Roswitha had her first lesson prepared. Everyone picked a one or a two from a hat and paired with someone of the opposite number as Roswitha showed the group the incantation for the shielding charm.

Roswitha had every one practice for a half hour or so on their own. Then, when everyone thought they had it, Roswitha gave everyone a basket with ten water balloons.

“Ones shall go first preparing their shield charm,” said Roswitha, grinning as she stood in front of the fireplace in the clubhouse. “Twos will through the balloons after the count of five. Cast your spells!”

Twenty nervous people muttered, “_Protego_!” waving their wands in front of their bodies.

“One, two,” Roswitha counted out, watching as everyone who had picked a two held up a water balloon, “three, four… five!”

Balloons launched – there were one or two people who managed to hold their shield charm so that the balloon broke against it. Everyone else either dropped the charm with the surprise of something lauching at them, or couldn’t hold it for more than five seconds and so became drenched.

“Switch,” Roswitha declared, lining up with the twos across from Neville who had been a one. “Twos cast, _Protego._ Ones you toss on the count of five!”

When Roswitha reached five again, they volley unleashed and many more came away drenched. Roswitha’s shield had held though, as had Susan’s and two others. “Switch again!” Roswitha called.

They swapped back and forth, and no one came out unscathed. Even Roswitha lost track of her shield one when she was checking on everyone’s progress, and more than that it was a hard spell to cast over and over again and maintain a shield each time. But everyone came away laughing and determined to get it right – everyone did the shield correctly at least once, and many even got it two or more times.

Roswitha taught everyone a drying spell, which made a gust of warm air, and when they were all dry, Roswitha explained the idea of researching each of the Lockhart books. “I know I’m not really a teacher, though,” said Roswitha, “so I won’t force you to. But it’s what’s made me as good as I am at magic. Anyone want to sit out?”

There were a few grumbles but no one objected.

For this, Roswitha had also prepared a hat stuffed with every name from of their year. She called out names one at a time, allowing people to pick which book they wanted to research. It came out as a nice mix between the houses, Roswitha found, which she was glad of as she didn’t want it to seem like she had any favorites. She and Hermione agreed to pick last and there was space left for _Year with the Yeti _and _Travels with Trolls_. Hermione had not read much about yetis and thought it might be fund to explore new topics.

Roswitha was ready to slip out toward the end so she, Ron and Sophie might go and have boxing practice, but Susan grabbed her before she left. “Great lesson, Ros,” said Susan with a giant grin. “I knew you could do it.”

Roswitha flushed under Susan’s praise and managed to mumble a thank you before Ron and Sophie carried her off. 

The month of November passed slowly at first. The petrification at Halloween made everyone jump at the shadows and check around every corner for more than a week. By that second week of November, though, things began to go back to normal. People began to move through the halls at a regular pace again, classes began to pick up steam as they worked toward the holiday and the end of term.

Before Roswitha knew it, December had begun and gone for a week. She had taught the others in her year five defense lessons and the Ravenclaws were beginning to badger her for a holiday assignment so that they might pencil it in. Roswitha had written out a curriculum for the last weeks of first term and had begun work on one for second term, including due dates for their fact checks on Lockhart’s book. Even so, she hadn’t considered holiday homework. Teaching was tough work, it seemed, for there was always something that someone thought of that you hadn’t.

It was beginning to wear on her, just ever so. Her other class work hadn’t begun to show it, but Dumbledore noticed.

“You’re distracted,” he said on their December 11th occlumensy lesson.

“Am I?” Roswitha asked.

Dumbledore nodded – then he called for a house elf so that he might order tea. Roswitha inwardly cringed. Dumbledore always wanted to talk when they were to have tea.

“You know, dear girl,” said Dumbledore, folding his hands into his lap, “I do admire your iniative and how you care for others, but if helping your friends with defense lessons is wearing you down, you are allowed to tell them no.”

Roswitha blinked and then opened her mouth to ask how he knew. She shut it immediately afterwards, because he was Dumbledore, of course he knew. “I suppose I hadn’t considered how difficult teaching would be,” Roswitha admitted. She was pretty good at it, especially knowing what would be covered eventually on the OWLs. But the opportunity had come at an odd time, and, well. “I’ve just begun to feel worn down, I suppose. It all started just after Halloween.”

Dumbledore hummed, then mumbled something under his breath that was sure to be a spell. Roswitha caught sight of herself in his window and found she was glowing a deep green color, the glow extending off of her several feet and getting lighter the further it went.

“Is that what my magic looks like?” Roswitha asked, not quite able to keep her mouth closed, even once the glow faded.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore, smiling. The elf appeared and so they helped themselves to tea, as well as Dumbledore’s favorite honey patries and Roswitha’s favorite cheese and salmon. “It should, however, been a deep green from you to the end of your aura. It looks as if your magic is still recovering from the events of Halloween. Not unreasonable, mind you, given how you exhausted yourself rather severely. Are you sleeping well?”

Roswitha thought about it, then shook her head. “Not poorly, but a little fitful.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly. “I think it may be best if you take a break from casting for a week or perhaps two, my dear. It will allow you a chance to rest from your exhaustion and let the magic return to you. Let’s finish our tea, and then you shall take a trip down to Madam Pomfrey to see if she concurs with my analysis. Once you are recovered, you will find your mind is in a better order, and perhaps all shall not seem as overwhelming as it does right now.”

As they finished their tea, Roswitha and Dumbledore talked about what plans she had for the next two classes and how they might alter them, or else if she could ask an upper year to come and do the casting for her. Roswitha felt a little down at the changes to be made, but also oddly pleased. As she and Dumbledore talked she didn’t feel just like his student but more… well, more like his equal.

“Oh, before you go,” said Dumbledore, as they prepared to wrap up their session. “I feel I ought to let you know that there will be others joining us at your level next term.”

“Is Percy Weasley one of them?” Roswitha asked.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “You shall see.” He shooed her away to Madam Pomfrey

Pomfrey also agreed that a break from casting would help her recover more quickly. She said she would send a note to the professors to excuse her from any in class work before sending Roswitha to lunch.

Roswitha deliberately sat down across from Percy who buried in a familiar brown book. It took several minutes before he realized she was staring at him. Percy sighed. “Yes, Roswitha?”

“Do you have class third period Wednesdays?” Roswitha asked.

“Your father’s as a matter of fact,” said Percy, looking over his glasses at her. “Why?”

“We’re doing group study for defense,” said Roswitha, nibbling on a chicken leg. “And Dumbledore and Pomfrey are restricting my casting until the holidays to help me heal from what happened at Halloween. I’m leading the group so I need someone to cast for me who’s a little more experienced.”

A smile slowly spread across Percy’s face as he blinked at her. “And you came to _me_?

“Percy you got twelve OWLs,” said Roswitha, rolling her eyes. “Of course I came to you.”

Percy began to look a little goofy he was smiling so much. “Well, like I said, I have Potions. But Penny doesn’t – you might ask her if she’s willing to help.”

Roswitha grinned back at him, though not quite as silly. “Thanks, Perce. And if you need help learning how to meditate, you should come and do yoga with us.”

Percy huffed, smile at last faded, “I don’t see why I have to learn this in the first place – while I’m taking NEWT classes no less.”

Roswitha patted his hand. “My fault, I think. If you hadn’t helped me out Dumbledore wouldn’t have seen your potential. But it’s not so bad – Dumbledore’s a pretty good teacher, actually, and we probably won’t be getting our minds invaded.”

“‘Probably,’ she says.” But Percy’s smile returned.

Roswitha managed to catch Penelope that night at supper. Penelope was charmed at the idea of helping to teach the two spells Roswitha was covering over the next two weeks, and agreed to meet in the 98 Clubhouse on Wedensdays. That settled, and being unable to castle for the next two weeks, Roswitha spent most of the time finishing off the term’s work, coming up with lesson plans, or playing with her friends. Her sleep began to improve, and by the time they were set to go home for the holiday, Roswitha felt like she was back in full form again. She had even come up with an assignment for the holidays: to describe how one might use three spells not normally considered for defense in a defensive situation.

Lavender tried to get them all to read along to Dracula on the way home, but Hermione pointed out that they probably wouldn’t finish before they got into King’s Cross. Lavender pouted, “But it would be so much fun to act it out! If we can’t read it now, what about a play? Fay you wanted to do a play, didn’t you?”

Roswitha quickly did mental math on how much free time she had between Quidditch, classes, and now teaching her friends defense. “Lav, if you put on a play, I swear I will make sure at least half the school comes, but I don’t think I’ll be able to rehearse with you.”

Lavender waved her off. “You’ve got a lot to do. But a play would be fun, don’t you think?”

Parvati seemed interested, as did Seamus and Fay. Neville offered up that he might like to help with the play, but didn’t think he had any talent for acting. Lavender began to poke at Hermione when Draco opened up their compartment door and asked for Roswitha to join him on a stroll. Eager to get out of an argument before it began, Roswitha followed him.

“Did you want to talk about something?” she asked as they walked down the train corridor.

Draco pursed his lips. “If I needed you to back me up on something, would you?”

“Depending on the thing, yes,” said Roswitha, nodding with no hesitation.

“If I wanted to go to Justin’s Dungeons and Dragons game, would you say that you made me come?” Draco asked.

“Alright,” said Roswitha not bothering to ask why.

He ducked his head a little. “It’s just, some of the older Slytherins found out that I was planning on going to one, and they asked why, and I said you made me. It’s alright if I’m chaperoning or keeping you safe because you’re my cousin. But I can’t want it for myself, you know, ‘cause it’s a muggle game and Justin’s a muggleborn.”

Roswitha scoffed. “I hate how that works.”

She understood _why_ ideas like that happened. Muggles had been able to kill witches and wizards in the past – the Church had converted belief in magic and nature into a singular drive for their own purpose (not even for their deity’s purpose most of the time). Muggles, in centuries gone by, had been willing to kill hundreds of their own searching for witches or wizards. And even after the flame freezing charm had been created, there were still those who died by pyre or noose for the “crime” of having magic. So, the Statute of Secrecy had formed. People had withdrawn from muggles, and witch's and wizards began to hate them for their fear and fear them for their hate.

Gradually that hatred and fear spread to all things muggle rather than the idea of hunting witches and wizards. But for goodness’ sake, Dungeons and Dragons was a game! And out of all witches and wizards, weren’t the muggleborns the most vulnerable if people suddenly decided that witchcraft was a heresy that once again required murder to wash it clean? Just because Roswitha understood the pureblood position didn’t mean she found it without fault – or that she didn’t think it stupid.

Draco only shrugged. “It is as it is. Will you come with me?”

“Yes, Darco, I will come with you,” said Roswitha, sighing.

“Great!” Draco perked up immediately and took her by the hand, moving more quickly through the train corridor.

“What, now?”

“I’ve already missed two sessions,” said Draco, looking into the compartments for the right group.

Roswitha rolled her eyes. “Fine, but no more than an hour.”

Draco looked back at her. “Yes, Mum,” he said, sliding open the compartment door and entering to where Justin sat with Millicent, Terry, Megan and Mandy.

“Hi Ros,” said Justin brightly, as everyone scooted in so they could sit. “Are you playing?”

“I’m here so Draco can play,” said Roswitha. It was then she realized that she and Draco, nor any of the others, had not gone on any pretend quests that year. She supposed one real quest was enough to last a lifetime and Dungeons & Dragons filled up any other void there was.

If Justin or anyone thought her statement was odd, they made no remark, merely started the game. Dungeons & Dragons involved playing dice to decide how well decisions went by each of the players. Justin would start up the story and then stop when he felt he was at an adequate point to request the others have a go. If someone rolled poorly, their intended decision would not go as they intended – if they rolled well, it was usually spot on. It was an engaging game, if only because watching the others fail their rolls was funnier than when they succeeded.

Draco made good on his promise to stay only for an hour, though the others were a little disappointed to limit their game play so. Still, Draco and Millicent went back to the other Slytherins, and Roswitha slipped the book she had been half reading back into her pocket.

“You should play with us sometime, Ros,” said Justin, as he packed up his game board and special gaming note book. “I think you would like it.”

“It looks fun,” Roswitha agreed, nodding. “But I just turned down being in Lavender's play because I’ve already got a lot going on. Maybe next year, if we have a good defense teacher.”

Justin frowned, but nodded. “That makes sense.”

Mandy gasped, though. “Lavender's putting on a play?”

“Maybe,” said Roswitha, shrugging. “She hadn’t worked out all the particulars when Draco came to get me. Want to walk back with me and see what she says?”

Mandy nodded eagerly, following her out. The others staid behind and pulled out their own books ready for study.

Lavender, Fay, Parvati and Seamus _were_ still talking about the play when Roswitha got back. In fact, they had attracted others from all years and taken over the compartment. Roswitha left Mandy in their company and went to go find the others.

She found them in fairly short order, in another compartment bundle all together having a mid-morning nap. Hermione had a book out in her lap, but the others seemed to have fairly intentionally gone to sleep. Roswitha nudged Ron and took a seat between him and the train wall. She pulled her book out to read, but soon found Ron’s warmth as he leaned against her a comfortable lull to sleep.


	5. Dracula, or a Disappointment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home for break, the kids go to watch a movie. But life at Hogwarts doesn't stop simply because people have gone home for a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick heads up: the kids go to watch Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992) which has a scene of sexual assault in it. Roswitha briefly describes the assault and how confused she is by it. If you'd rather not read it, when you hit "Though, not much comfort could be found when they started the film," jump down to "The kids decided to give them all some space to get over it completely as they spread out for their picnic."

They all woke up again as the conductor announced they were pulling into the station. Yawning, all of them roused and went to go collect their luggage from their first compartment.

“Aren’t you still on a casting ban?” Lavender asked when Roswitha shrunk her trunk and made it feather light.

Roswitha shrugged. “I wasn’t evaluated to say so, but they said two weeks and it _has_ been two weeks. I’ll have Father check me when he gets home tonight.”

Since Roswitha had already cast the spell, there was nothing anyone else could do but mother hen after her, which they all grew tired off pretty quickly. Instead, they dressed in their winter outer clothes, everyone else shrunk their luggage down as well, and they waited for the tran to pull in.

When it began to slow, but had not quite stopped, Ron jumped to his feet, opened the outer compartment door shouting, “Bill!” before he leapt into the arms of a tall, redheaded man standing on the platform.

The man, Bill presumably, had tried to yell, “Don’t you dare!” but had only gotten to “Don’t!” before he had an arm full of Ron.

“Does Ron know him?” Fay asked, tilting her head to one side.

“He’s currently clinging to him like a koala,” said Sophie, grinning and giggling. “So, I hope so.”

“I think that’s his eldest brother,” said Roswitha, running over the catalog of Weasley siblings in her brain. She spotted Scabbers, left behind on the seat and pulled him into her gloved hands, running her fingers over the rat’s back.

“Everyone knows where we’re meeting for the movie, right?” Hermione asked.

“Don’t make me smother you when we’re this close to home,” said Parvati, mock glaring. “Yes, Mi, we all know where we’re meeting.”

Hermione had the good grace to blush. “I just don’t want anyone missing out! I’ve been waiting on this film since they announced it, and we’ve all read the book.”

Parvati gave her a one armed hug. “Oh, I know. But don’t worry! We’ve got each other, so everything will turn out just fine.”

“Group hug!” Dean declared as the train lurched to a final stop. The second year Gryffindors, sans Ron, all crowded around Hermione and hugged each other tight.

Feeling better and lighter and loved, the nine of them filed off the train. Roswitha followed after her friends, handling Hedwig’s cage in one hand and Scabbers in the other, and made her way over to where Mrs. Weasley was reading Ron the riot act, as Bill and Mr. Weasley stood by, grinning fondly.

“And jumping from a moving train!” said Mrs. Weasley as she brushed off Ron’s coat. “You’re as bad as the twins sometimes.” Then she paused, looking Ron up and down. “Ronnie, where did you get this coat?”

“Roswitha gave it to me last year for Christmas,” said Ron, glancing over at her as she drew closer. “We went to one of those… what do you call them Ros?”

“A consignment store,” said Roswitha as she passed Scabbers over.

Ron cudddled Scabbers between his hands saying, “Right, a consignment store, and I liked it so she made it a Christmas gift. It’s a good coat isn’t it Mum?”

“A very good coat,” said Mrs. Weasley nodding as she straightened it. “It’ll need washing when we get home, but where are our manners. Roswitha, this is our eldest son, William Weasley. Bill dear, this is Ron’s friend, Roswitha Black.”

Roswitha stuck out a hand for him to shake. “Pleased to meet you – you can call me Ros, if you’d like.”

Bill had a handsome face, which was made even more handsome as he smiled. “Likewise, and call me Bill, please.”

Roswitha released his hand, trying desperately not to flush as she felt someone move her by her shoulders to the right of Bill. She looked up and found Pappa there, and that he had a hand on Ron as well. “There’s incoming,” said Pappa gently, as he kissed her forehead.

Before Roswitha could ask what he meant, the twins and Ginny streaked through the crowd as red blurs before landing on Bill. The force of the three of them combined sent all of them tumbling back to the ground (Pappa and Mr. Weasley cast a pair of cushioning charms so the landing wouldn’t be overhard). Bill lay prone, like a frightened animal playing dead, as his three younger siblings began to chant his name.

Percy approached at a much more normal pace saying, “Didn’t the three of you forget something on the train? You might want to go and get your things before someone takes revenge for all the pranks you’ve played.”

Fred, George, and (even though she hadn’t pranked anyone) Ginny all froze, before dashing back toward the train. Ron and Roswitha snickered at their actions as Percy held out a hand to help Bill to his feet.

“Thanks, Sir Percival,” said Bill, his handsome smile resumed.

“Get out of our country, King William,” said Percy, even as he reached for a hug.

Bill snorted but hugged Percy back. “You seem more relaxed than usual. Someone been helping you with that? A girlfriend or boyfriend or both?”

Percy hummed. “Not in front of the wains,” he said at last.

“You’re a wain,” Roswitha and Ron retorted.

Pappa managed to cut in edgewise to introduce himself, and Bill lit up at the mention of Pappa’s name. Thankfully, Manny and Helen interrupted before they could get too deep into curse breaking talk (because if they had Roswitha knew she would have been rooted to that spot in King’s Cross until the sun went down).

Mr. Weasley sensed the impending academic discussion as well, for he waved in Manny and Helen with a smile. “Menalaus, Helen, come and meet our eldest, Bill.”

Helen gave a bright smile and introduced herself before asking, “We saw you from a far and came to ask if you’ll be attending the movie with your siblings.”

“Which one?” Bill asked.

“_Dracula_,” said Helen, drawing out her r.

Bill grinned and nodded. “Oh, that sounds grand. Put us down for eight tickets.” Then, before either of his parents could object, Bill pulled out a wallet and passed Helen £30. “Let me know if that’s not enough and I’ll have more. Egypt uses different currency, and I didn’t get a chance to change it all over.”

“Should be plenty,” said Helen, taking the two notes. “I’ll have your change at the theater. Well, I’d better let all of you go; no doubt we’ll all be crying for lunch soon.”

On que, Fred and George, having returned from fetching their trunks began to whimper. Mrs. Weasley only rolled her eyes and began shuffling the two of them toward the exit. Hermione, before anyone else could go, managed to grab Ron and Roswitha in one final hug. Then, Hermione disappeared with her parents, and Ron followed his family chattering to Percy and Bill as they went.

Alone now, save for the rest of the swiftly emptying platform, Pappa turned Roswitha to face him saying, “Well, now, let me look at you.”

Roswitha flushed and shifted from foot to food. To her, she looked the same as she always had. But Pappa had not been by to visit this term after parents’ day, since the long contract mentioned in his letter to her some months ago had been longer than expected, and so he must have seen every little change made to her by time. When he was done looking, after several minutes, Pappa pulled Roswitha in for a close hug. Roswitha hugged him back, having not realized just how much she had missed her father.

“I’ve missed you, my darling heart,” he said, holding her tight.

“I’ve missed you, too, Pappa,” said Roswitha.

He pulled away smiling at her. “You know something, your father hates sushi, but I think you’d like it. Do you want to have lunch in town today?”

Roswitha nodded, a bright grin on her face.

They apparated home to drop of Hedwig, snoozing in her carrying cage, and Roswitha’s things before heading out to lunch. Sushi was raw fish on rice, amongst other variations, and Roswitha _loved_ it. It took her a few tries before she managed to handle chopsticks correctly, but the fish was always juice and tender, the rice soft and delicious. The sushi restaurant also served soup, seaweed salad, and beans called edamame where you ate the bean but not the pod.

“I can’t believe Father doesn’t like this,” said Roswitha as she ate what must have been her tenth salmon nigiri.

Pappa chuckled. “Father has very particular tastes thanks to poor food he ate growing up. He also hasn’t had a chance to travel as much as I have.”

“I have you been to Japan, then?” Roswitha asked, tilting her head to one side. She knew intellectually that Pappa had had a whole different life before he came back to Grimmauld Place and took custody of her, but sometimes she forgot. It seemed like they had been together always.

“I have,” said Pappa nodding with a smile. “And most of Europe, many places in India and China, places like Mali, Ghana, Ethiopia, South Africa, and many more places too. I want to show you the world, all the places I’ve been.”

“Well, France first,” said Roswitha, smiling. She’d quite like to see the world. “We promised the Flamels.”

Pappa shook his head. “How to manage to get into these situations I’ll never know. And speaking of unbelievable situations, how are you feeling after your little occlumency incident?”

Roswitha chewed and swallowed the piece of tamago she had been eating. “I’m feeling much better. I guess Father must have told you about my casting ban, then?”

Pappa nodded his mouth in a singular line.

“I didn’t mean to keep it from you,” said Roswitha shaking her head. “I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately, and Professor Dumbledore thinks the magical exhaustion kept me from thinking at my best. I’m sorry, Pappa, I shouldn’t have worried you.”

“Hmm, well,” said Pappa as he gave a small smile. “It’s to be expected – you are growing up and soon you won’t want to tell me anything. At least your father is also your professor so we can gossip about you.”

Roswitha did not say so, but she decided then that she would schedule time to write Pappa at least twice a month. “I am sorry all the same,” said Roswitha, shyly. 

“I know, darling heart.” Pappa took her hand and smiled at her and that was all there was to it. 

Their holiday was much quieter than the last one had been. Roswitha could tell that Father enjoyed himself immensely, as sometimes he just sat in the sitting room with nothing and hand and no sound, just sitting not napping or anything. Roswitha would stare at him when he became like this, usually until Father would look up at her. One time he cracked a single eye opened and said, “You may stay so long as you’re quiet. I’m enjoying the silence.” 

So, Roswitha cuddled up with him. She meditated for a while, but the warmth of her fire and the comfortable presence of Father’s arm around her invited sleep in too well. 

Christmas morning was also a quiet affair. Roswitha woke with no friends wishing her a Happy Christmas and, strangely, no desire to go and jump on her parents’ bed (or try to) as had become a merry tradition. She thought about doing so for a moment before she merely skulked along to the sitting room. They had bought a tree this year, and decorated it the day after she came back from Hogwarts, but after the excitement of last Christmas, it didn’t seem the same somehow.

Roswitha found herself thinking of Ron and Draco almost all at once. She wondered if Ron had crawled into Percy’s bed last night, or Bill’s, or if he hadn’t had a need since his parents were sleeping right below him so there was no one to miss. Then she recalled when she and Draco had first met, he had asked his parents for a sibling because he was lonely. 

“I never thought I would perfectly understand one of his ideas,” Roswitha muttered as Bits popped in and began to lay out breakfast on the coffee table. But, Roswitha figured if her parents would not entertain the idea of having more pets, they probably would not like her requesting they have another child.

“The strangest thing,” Pappa announced as he entered the room, tying his dressing gown around his body.

“What’s that?” Roswitha asked as she passed him a cup of tea. 

Pappa took a large draught. “I fully expected to be jumped on today. I’m almost a little disappointed I was not. It was an odd sensation, trust me,” he said as he sat down next to her, tickling her side with his free hand. “Woke me up out of a dead sleep.” 

Roswitha batted him away from tickling her, but kissed his cheek saying, “Happy Christmas, Pappa.” 

“Happy Christmas, my darling heart,” he said, kissing her forehead. “Are you alright?”

“Just missing my friends, I suppose,” said Roswitha, sighing a little. “Since we had the Weasleys around last Christmas I didn’t really have anyone to miss.” 

“Oh, I know it can be hard,” he said, setting down his teacup and pulling her close. “But you’ll be back at school far too soon for my liking, and then you’ll only have me to miss.” 

Roswitha felt a little better in his embrace, and hugged Pappa back tightly. “I don’t like missing you, either.” 

Pappa hummed. “Well, it will get better with time, my darling heart. When you’ve graduated Hogwarts, you’ll have much more time to visit with me and Father and your friends, almost whenever you like.”

Graduating Hogwarts — it would be another five and a half years before she did. All that seemed like a lifetime away — it was nearly half her life so far. It gave Roswitha the idea that nothing was permanent. 

Pappa pinched her. “Rest whatever heavy thought you are turning and go open some presents. You’re far too serious for a Christmas morning.” 

“Yes, Pappa,” said Roswitha, feeling unable to contain a grin. 

Roswitha tore into her presents, though perhaps with a little less abandon than usual. She wasn’t sure if was due to her heavy thoughts, or just being a little older now than she had been before. 

The next day they prepared picnic food of their leftover Christmas dinner and the three of them apparated to an alley down the street of movie theater where the rest were meeting up for the Dracula movie. Father groaned as they walked in view of the theatre. 

“What’s the matter?” Pappa asked. 

“The Weasleys have multiplied again,” he muttered, pointing out a young man standing next to Bill who looked to be of a similar age and had red hair as well. 

“Is that Charlie?” Roswitha asked. 

“Indeed it is,” said Father, muttering. “All of them have been good at potions thus far. I’m praying at least Ron or Ginerva will fail their OWLs.”

“The twins don’t have their OWLs until next year,” Roswitha pointed out. “Why not pray they fail those?’

Father rolled his eyes quite severely. “Because they won’t.” 

The Dunbars spotted them first and waved them over. “Alright, Severus, Regulus,” said Mr. Dunbar, shaking each of their hands before Mrs. Dunbar gave them both a hug. Mr. Dunbar leaned in and muttered what seemed to be the question of the hour, “Tell me right: do Molly and Arthur grow them in the garden?”

Mrs. Dunbar stepped on his foot. “Maybe they just like each other, Homer!”

Mr. Dunbar gave her a grin. “You don’t like me?”

Mrs. Dunbar considered the question. “Not enough for seven children,” she muttered at last. 

The Weasleys came over next and, indeed, the new redhead was Charlie Weasley. “Mum and Dad were proper surprised when we got back to the Burrow,” said Ron with a grin. “We drove but Charlie flooed up midday and had supper on and the kitchen cleaned. He’s mum’s new favorite.” 

“Mum doesn’t have favorites, Ronnie,” Charlie chidded. Then he puffed out his chest. “But if she did, I would be it.” 

Bill rolled his eyes and ruffled Charlie’s hair. 

The Granger-Compton’s arrived next, passing out tickets and change.

“Are you going to be as tall as your brothers?” Hermione asked as she spied Charlie and Bill from where she, Roswitha, and Ron stood to the side of everyone. 

“Are you going to be as pretty as your mum?” Ron asked without hesitation.

After a beat, both of them flushed as brightly as they could and turned away from one another. Roswitha, however, found herself in helpless laughter. 

“What’s funny?” Padma asked as she and Parvati approached their group. 

Ron and Hermione took to poking her where she was ticklish, which only made Roswitha laugh harder and be completely unable to explain. Padma and Parvati only shook their heads and took it in stride. 

The others arrived only shortly after them, and when everyone had come, Dr. Compton called out, just loudly enough to get their attention, "Alright team." Dr. Compton liked to call large groups of children "team." He didn't coach anything, nor were they all branded together by any particular sport, but Dr. Compton seemed to think such a collective title would make them more likely to work together.

Roswitha, privately, liked the title, even though the ten of them already worked well together.

"Gather round, team," said Dr. Compton, drawing them in with his hands. "Gather round. Well then, this version of Dracula is rated R, which means it's usually only for adults. Since it's a vampire film we parents think that might be because it could become quite violent. If that's the case and anyone needs to leave the theater, grab your closest adult, and we'll go out with you for a little while until things might be better, alright?"

All the children nodded -- they had all read the book and thought they could handle whatever might come up on screen.

Speech finished, the adults herded them all into the theater, and the children among them took the first long row that was available. Parvati, once they were settled, asked her mother to take a photograph of them.

"What for?" asked Lavender, patting and tucking her hair in places.

"This is going to be a tradition," said Parvati, shrugging, a little. "I thought it might be nice to have a picture every year."

No one objected, and all smiled for the picture even as they turned the thought over in their minds. Roswitha quite liked the idea of a tradition like this -- when they got older it would be something to keep them in touch if nothing else could. One film every year. It sounded nice, comforting even.

Though, not much comfort could be found when they started the film. The spooky atmosphere settled over them at once.

Roswitha suspected things might be diverging from the text slightly when Lucy and Mina shared a kiss in the rain. She pondered for a moment if the filmmakers had chosen to rescue Lucy with Mina’s love – it would be fitting. Roswitha had liked Lucy’s character They loved each other quite a lot in the book, as evidenced by their correspondence, but the book showed it as something more friendly than romantic. Roswitha could see it, though – the same way she could see how Lavender and Parvati would cuddle up with one another, or how Hannah and Susan would often hold hands wherever they went. They were still children, of course, but as they got older, Roswitha could see friendship blossoming into more.

Her suspicions were confirmed, for the worse Roswitha feared, only a few minutes later in the film. After a scene where Mina chases Lucy through the garden, Mina stumbled on a scene of Lucy being… being…

There was a wolf-man, presumably Dracula, on top of Lucy. Lucy moaned as their hips gyrated together, and the Wolf man caressed her legs and bare breasts.

Roswitha knew about sex – she knew that was how children were made between people who were able, and that her parents did it with some frequency for fun. There had not, precisely, been one moment where she learned everything there was to know about it, but from little tidbits passed on to her by Narcissa and Andromeda and even Father occasionally (Pappa blushed and stuttered whenever the subject came up and Roswitha was still in earshot).

And even knowing what she did, Roswitha squirmed in her seat watching what was up on the screen. It made her uncomfortable in a way (or ways maybe) she could not name.

The theater was deadly silent after Dracula wiped Mina’s and Lucy’s memories and disappeared from the frame. The audio coming from the speakers almost seemed too loud as everyone held still in the wake of the scene. The ten of them had sat in one of the first rows as you came into the theater – everyone who had come in after them had seen a large group of children wandering into the theater to watch this movie. Perhaps they had expected Dracula’s violence as they had – the sort related to blood drinking and throat ripping. Nothing like this.

Neville, bless him, broke the tension completely as he leaned over to her and, in a too loud whisper, said, “Well, that didn’t happen in the book.”

Fred and George behind them began to snort and snicker, and even as Percy, then Bill and Charlie, began to shush them, they started laughing too. Once they had done so, the whole theater seemed to laugh at the remark – it was true, though, as such a scene _wasn’t_ in the book. A man in front of them even turned around and remarked, “Too right you are, my son.”

Neville beamed at the man – he likely had not forgotten being shushed quite loudly at last year’s film.

The rest of the movie proceeded a little more like the book had, though Minda and Dracula went on several dates together – one even when she was sure Lucy was probably dying. But they went on to Transylvania where they killed the brides, and Mina swung the sword that killed the vampire at last. By the time it was over, and they filed out of the theatre for their post film picnic, Roswitha could see the mortification had mostly faded from their parents’ face. Mostly.

The kids decided to give them all some space to get over it completely as they spread out for their picnic. Lavender, as soon as they were all settled, began in earnest about how they definitely had to put on a play now. “We should do the story justice,” she said with resolute conviction. “Fay, you used to be a dancer, right?”

“Still am, though I can’t go to lessons while we’re at school,” Fay said nodding. “And I like the idea of a play too.”

“I want you to be Lucy,” said Lavender nodding, sharply.

Fay perked up. “Really?” she asked.

“Mighten you need help with making things flash and bang?” asked Fred as he and George leaned in to the conversation.

Lavender did not include Roswitha in the discussion, though, out of respect of her previous commitments. Thus, as they all ruminated on a possible play, Roswitha’s mind drifted off to the topic of sex. Hermione had said that in the past year her mother had sat her down and explained everything. Hermione had said so to all the girls in their year, so that they could ask questions if they need to, or read one of the books Helen had provided Hermione with if they were too embarrassed to ask. Roswitha didn’t think she could ask her parents, for as far as she knew, they had only ever been with other men, so wouldn’t even have an inkling of the goings on of a young woman. Narcissa would likely give her a talk about duty. Andromeda might be someone she could talk to, though when she might be able to talk to Andromeda was really the question. A book might be just what Roswitha needed – she craved information, lest she be found ignorant on the subject when the time arose to act on it.

It wasn’t as if Roswitha thought she would need information on the act itself any time soon, she was only twelve after all. She imagined, at the soonest, she would have sex at fifteen, provided she had a willing partner at the time. But it was better to know, Roswitha thought, than come to the moment and have no idea what she was about to do with someone. Plus, Hermione’s books had information about her physical sex as well as the act, which would be helpful to digest as well.

Roswitha dug out her diary just as the play discussion was getting heated and wrote out a little note before passing it to Hermione. Hermione read the note, then scribbled down the names of three books and passed it back.

When the picnic finished, they all said good-bye to one another and headed for their various means of transportation. Roswitha, Pappa, and Father walked a little bit until they found a suitable alley, ducked in and apparated home.

There, however, they found most unwelcome news.

Professor Dumbledore sat in the parlor, a glass of scotch in his hand.

“Albus,” said Father as they entered, rushing to Professor Dumbledore’s side. “I hope you haven’t been here long.”

Dumbledore shook his head. “No, I have not. You’ll have to forgive my libation, but I have come to tell you of awful news.”

Pappa took her by the shoulders and steered Roswitha to the stairs. “Up to your room, now,” he said, sounding calm even as panic rose in his eyes.

Roswitha did as bade, but paused on the first floor landing where she knew she would be out of site.

“What has happened?” Father asked.

“Whatever it was that struck on Halloween night has come again,” said Professor Dumbledore, quite grave. “And this time it was Professor Kettleburn who was petrified.”

At the sound of her parents’ gasps, Roswitha quietly hurried up the stairs to her room. A prank on Mr. Filch was one thing – it was beyond a mean spirited thing to do, cruel and foul more like, but Roswitha understood the motivation. Filch never met a student he didn’t hate, and some people hated him in return rather than ignore him like everyone else did. But no one had a bad thing to say about Professor Kettleburn – he was kind, competent and helped students as much as he could.

Roswitha flopped on her bed – it didn’t make sense. Two different victims, no apparent link between the two. Then, she had a sudden, terrifying thought. If there was no link, maybe the attacks were random. Maybe anyone, and everyone, could be next.

Over the rest of the holiday, Roswitha found out that the board of governors shared her opinion of the situation. There was some talk of shutting down the school.

“Bet Marchbanks shut that one down,” said Pappa as he and Father talked in the sitting room, where they did not know Roswitha lingered by the door.

Father, who had been in and out of board meetings as a faculty member for the rest of break nodded. “Old families can school themselves, but there’s nothing in place for the muggleborns. I could tell Lucius wanted to make a snotty comment about it, but Marchbanks said accidental magic would be on the rise in such a panic – they’ll need to be in a school of some sort to control themselves. We’d risk exposing our entire society if that were the case.”

As Wizarding Britain stuck to the shadows, there was no other structure in the whole of England, Wales, Scotland, and Northern Ireland which could house nearly fifteen hundred students and teach them. There was too much infrastructure to be made again in only a handful of days. Nor could other schools take on even a quarter of the students in such a time.

Someone suggested removing Dumbledore.

Madam Longbottom shot the suggestion down instantly. “Even if he cannot be everywhere at once, which he cannot, and whether you care for the man’s politics, anyone will acknowledge that Dumbledore is one of the most magical persons living. Besides that, he has been a teacher almost since he graduated from Hogwarts – no one devotes such time to a practice to tear it all down in their twilight.”

Someone commuted the suggestion of removing Dumbledore to having him examined for mental acumen – to which no one objected, apparently not even Dumbledore.

“If I were Albus I would be humiliated,” said Pappa as they ate breakfast, talking before she came in.

“Albus has suffered more humiliation than most know,” said Father, with a shrug. “I suspect it was not too great a burden for him to bear. He passed in any case.”

So, they couldn’t close the school, couldn’t oust the headmaster. What then to do? Students would be returning any day now.

Madam Bones’ suggestion made the most sense. She suggested that auror trainees and retired aurors be brought in to make a sweep of the castle and to stay put to help guard the place. Have students walk in groups, she added, for there was safety in numbers.

“What’s that about Mr. Graves?” Roswitha asked as she walked in to the solar, for supper the night before she was to return to school.

Pappa and Father, who had stopped their discussion as she entered blinked at her. “How on earth are you familiar with Percival Graves?” Pappa asked.

“They live in Devon,” said Roswitha, shrugging, “and came upon us when we went into Otterton while I was staying with the Weasleys. Since it was just us kids, they offered to walk us home.”

“They?” asked Father, furrowing his brow.

“Mr. Graves, Dr. Scamander, and their son, Rolf,” Roswitha explained, as she began to serve herself supper. “If Mr. Graves is coming to the castle, I presume Dr. Scamander is as well? Full time I mean.”

True to Professor Dumbledore’s start of year speech, they had seen Dr. Scamander around the castle as she helped Professor Kettleburn teach classes. She had been kind enough to wave whenever Roswitha managed to get her attention, before turning back to her work.

Father nodded, apparently seeing no harm in divulging that information. “Yes, Dr. Scamander will be starting full time this term so the students do not lose a teacher this close to NEWTs and OWLs.”

“I wonder what the NEWT students for defense are doing then,” Roswitha muttered before she could stop herself.

“At present, there are no NEWT students for defense,” said Father, lifting a forkful of roast to his mouth.

Roswitha started. “What, none at all?”

Father nodded as he chewed, and when he had finished, he added, “Minerva’s already fretting over next year’s time table and hiring someone as she thinks some of the fifth years will opt for a defense NEWT.”

“Hiring?” Roswitha asked, feeling a stupid grin overtake her.

Father grinned too. “Oh, yes, my child. Hiring. Admittedly, I don’t like Minerva’s pick for a candidate, but he’s at least competent, which is more than I can say for the fool. I hold out hope that an auror trainee will like well enough being back at the castle to apply.”

“You should let your father look over your lesson plans, my darling heart,” said Pappa, cutting into the conversation.

Roswitha blinked, then felt herself grow hot. “You _know_?” she asked.

Both her parents gave her a quizzical look. “Of course we _know_, darling heart,” said Pappa. “All of your Professors know – and it’s entirely your fault that you live with one of your professors, what with your matchmaking skills being what they were even at nine.”

At such an accusation, Roswitha only shrugged, for it was true. “Why hasn’t anybody stopped me if all the Professors know?”

“Because you aren’t hurting anything,” said Father, looking over at her. He took a draught from his wine glass – he seldom drank any alcohol, but the past week’s frustrations must have made an exception. “And, I should say, the fool hasn’t figured it out yet. If he does and starts bothering you, child, you have my permission to skive his classes.”

Pappa, normally upset when Father suggested doing poorly in classes other than his own, nodded. “Tell your Father if it happens too. Odin knows I would dearly love to pun…punish,” he corrected mid-thought thanks to a raised eyebrow from Father, “Gilderoy Lockhart for the years of inanity he inflicted on the populace when we were in school.”

“And of course, if you cannot find me you can always ask Albus and Minerva for their assistance,” said Father, nodding to her.

After supper, they did look over lesson plans, comparing them to the letter sent from Madam Marchbanks. Father suggested a change here or there, mostly to the way she worded her explanations of how spells worked. The only thing he forced her to change was a lesson involving dungbombs.

“Water balloons are one thing,” he said, firmly, because naturally he had heard of their shield exercises from the previous term.

However, had Roswitha kept something like the theft of the Philosopher’s Stone a secret from the faculty or her parents? She pondered the question as she wrote in her diary that night. They had never, to her knowledge, betrayed her privacy, or her trust, but still they listened, and both were canny and clever. The professors, Lockhart notwithstanding, seemed to be paying attention as well. Perhaps, she wondered, they became more alert after the theft of the stone and now the petrifications. It’s one thing to keep a weather-eye when all’s well, but another to be vigilant in a crisis.

They were nearly mobbed when they went to the train station on the morning of January 7.

“Why on earth are you asking me?” said Pappa sounding quite petulant as the crowd around him grew thicker. “I do not speak for Hogwarts.”

“No, but you have a husband who does,” said Molly Weasley quite sternly as she held Pappa in place with her gaze.

“Fiancé,” Pappa muttered.

“Same difference,” said Helen Granger. “Start talking, Reg. We need answers if we’re going to put our kids on that train. And honestly, they should have come before now.”

Pappa frowned, but turned to Roswitha saying, “Go and find a compartment. I’ll be in to say goodbye to you before the train leaves.” He looked up at the other parents as if to dare them to let him do otherwise.

Roswitha kissed him, just in case, before she moved toward the train, Hedwig’s travel cage in one hand and her trunk shrunken in her pocket. Roswitha found a compartment easily, for far more of them than usual sat empty. As she looked out over the sea of the crowd, Roswitha noticed why. There were just as many families as normal, maybe more than usual, but all of the children were being held on to by their parents as they interrogated board members or listened when they spoke. 

The compartment door opened from the inside and Justin slid in. “Hide me!” he exclaimed, pushing himself down into the seat cushions next to her.

Roswitha took off her cloak and laid it over him. “What are you hiding from?”

“My parents,” said Justin, whispering. “Heard about the petrification, were thinking of keeping me at home this term or trying to get a special exception to send me to Eton. That redheaded fellow there,” said Justin, daring to point him out, “the one in the tweed suit, was trying to talk them down, saying how it could be more dangerous if I don’t go back.”

“Justin you can’t just hide on the train until it leaves the station,” Roswitha whispered in return as she still kept a weather eye on his parents in the man in the tweed suit. The man looked familiar, but Roswitha couldn’t quite place him. “They can have you brought home from Hogwarts, you know. Plus, you’ll feel miserable later if you get away with this and you don’t see them all term.”

“I know, I know,” said Justin, muttering now. “But I’ll feel more miserable if I don’t get to go back to Hogwarts at all. Imagine if you couldn’t go back, Ros – I know your family even have lots of books and things, and they’ve been all wizard for ages, so they could actually teach you something. But you’d still be miserable, wouldn’t you?”

Roswitha thought glumly of not returning to Hogwarts for any part of her schooling. “Yes,” she said. For it was true, she would miss her year mates, the Gryffindor dorms, the hallways, and her Pride. She would be pretty miserable, Justin was right, and it wouldn’t be fair if he didn’t get to return just because he was a muggleborn and she was a halfblood that belonged to a posh old family that frequently got its way through fire and blood (if the historical record accounted for anything). “I’ll go with you,” she offered at last. “To help explain it – the precautions they’re taking and everything.”

Justin huffed and muttered, but he pulled Roswitha’s cloak off of himself and passed it back to her. “Alright. I’ll go back.”

Roswitha left the train car and Justin followed after her, as they wove their way back through the crowds to where his parents stood with the other man.

“Will all due respect, Lord Theseus,” Mr. Finch-Fletchley was saying, “how can we really be sure that Justin will be safe where he’s at.”

“I have five children myself,” said Lord Theseus, nodding to Mr. Finch-Fletchley, “I understand your concerns, Sir Malcolm, really I do. But the fact remains that Justin’s schooling is important, not just as education, but to his wellness as a wizard. As of right now, we do not know what caused the petrifications, but only adults with stern reputations were targeted. And the school is taking every precaution to make sure the children remain safe. I’ll be among one of the aurors who will be investigating and watching over the children as they return to their studies.”

“Good lord,” said Sir Malcolm looking Lord Theseus up and down. “I do not mean to disparage you, my lord, but you must be at least one-hundred-years-old.”

Lord Theseus smiled. “One-hundred-and-two, as a matter of fact. But I was tested and my accuracy and diligence remains the same as when I first became an auror at twenty.”

“That’s how I know you!” Roswitha exclaimed, for his smile had revealed everything. “You must be Dr. Scamander’s brother!”

Lord Theseus and Sir Malcolm turned to her and Justin (Justin shrank down a little, but Roswitha stood tall if a little flushed). Lord Theseus’ smile didn’t waiver. “Why yes – are you taking classes with Newt?”

Roswitha shook her head. “We’ve met in passing. She’s quite brilliant though, my lord, I think I’d like to take classes with her if she’s still on with the school next year. Oh, pardon me, my lords, madam.” Roswitha curtsied as she had been taught to do. “Roswitha Black, pleased to make your acquaintances.”

Lord Theseus Scamander bowed to her, quite charmingly, and Sir Malcolm gave a confused half bow. “Manners,” said Lord Theseus when he rose, “are still what our grandparents would have known in the Edwardian era you see. Miss Black’s family is quite well to do, and it’s nice to see they’ve raised such a mannerly girl.”

Roswitha did her best not to flush, though that meant she could not hold back her beaming look as she did. “Thank you, my lord.”

“You’re quite welcome,” said Lord Theseus, nodding to her again. “Miss Black, I do believe I see your father looking for you. Why don’t you and Mr. Finch-Fletchly run along to the train now?”

Both Roswitha and Justin paused and turned to look at Sir Malcolm. Sir Malcolm looked to his wife who had been silently observing all this time. After a moment, she turned to Justin and brushed down his cloak. “If there is any trouble,” she said at last. “I want you home in a heartbeat, Justin. I know you like Hogwarts, but your life is more important than school. And we’ll talk about sending you to another school – the one in France or the one in America. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Mum,” Justin said with a nod. He embraced her tightly, and she embraced him just as tightly.

“If you’d like, Lady Beatrice, I can write to you as well,” said Lord Theseus, as Justin broke from her embrace and went to hug his father.

“I would appreciate that, Lord Theseus,” said Lady Beatrice nodding to him. Roswitha noticed that her eyes were quite red – she had been crying, and crying a lot. “I will hold you to that on your honor as a Lord.”

Lord Theseus nodded to her, before he nudged the children off back toward the train. Roswitha found Pappa waiting at the compartment where she had deposited Hedwig, which was now gradually filling up as was the rest of the train. She let Justin in before her so that she could hug Pappa tightly.

“Be good this term, my darling heart,” he said when he pulled back, cupping her face with his hands. “I know you always are, but listen to your Father and the other professors and try extra hard to stay out of trouble.”

Roswitha nodded. “I will. Is everything alright with the other parents? They didn’t dress you down?”

“They did,” said Pappa, with a little frown. “But I understand their fear and their concern. That I’m sending you back comforts everyone a little. Still, I understand that I still owe several rounds at the ale house for not talking about the whole thing sooner than I did.” He kissed her forehead, then pulled her close once again.

Plenty of parents seemed to be doing the same until the conductor pulled the whistle signalling that they really must go now.

Pappa pulled away. “Have a good term, my darling heart,” he said, nudging her toward the carriage. “Write me as often as you can.”

“I will,” said Roswitha, for she had the time to write him marked each week in her planner. She closed the door to the compartment. “I love you, Pappa,” she said, reaching out to him.

“I love you, too, my darling heart.” Pappa reached out for her too, but could only hold on for a moment before the train began to pull out of the station and they had to let go.


	6. Tables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roswitha returns to Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've held back the last chapters of this fic, despite being complete, because I was trying to write the third book which is... not going well. Partly because in the third book, I think I need to shift the plot from "boarding school year reviews" where we do one year per book, to something more like what Tamora Pierce does in the Alanna and Keladry books (Keladry is probably a more apt example since the time in her books isn't covered as swiftly, and I may need to skip years all together). There's nothing wrong with the year per book model, but it's just not working out for me, I'm afraid. As is, I'm having some difficulty reconciling this shift, but I will eventually. I'm just gonna post this all en masse though, since I already royally forked the posting schedule. Enjoy!

No one was in a very merry mood as the train chugged on to Scotland. But after about a half hour of being so solemn they could choke on the solemnity of it all, everyone in the compartment started to fidget.

Around that time, their compartment door slid open so quickly they yelped and screamed, only to find a fuschia haired witch standing in the doorway.

“Nymphadora!” Roswitha cried, throwing the book she had been reading at her cousin. “That was rude.”

Nym for all she was clumsy, did catch the book. “Don’t call me Nymphadora, cos’. Besides that, I’m on duty, so Auror Tonks will do.” She passed the book back to Roswitha. “And you don’t want to get caught assaulting an auror. Aside from that, I had to listen to an hour long rant from Uncle Malfoy about duty and honor and protecting his baby boy from every danger on the earth, so I don’t need anything pelted at my face. All that said, hate to ask, but has anyone got any contraband?”

“You’re not supposed to ask, Auror Tonks,” said a deep voice to her left. A tall, handsome man in auror robes stepped into the doorway next to Tonks, he was just managing not to smile, but his handsome, dark mouth still did twitch.

Nym saluted, “Yes Auror Shacklebolt, sir.”

Roswitha had never had a crush before – but she imagined that the way her heart sped up and the heat pooling in her stomach when she saw Auror Shacklebolt meant that she had one now. From the way Dean was nudging her and the look on his face, she thought he had one too – Seamus and Sophie as well. “Do…” she said, causing Shacklebolt’s and Nym’s eyes to go to her. “Do we turn out our pockets, or…?”

“Your pockets will be a good start if you don’t mind,” said Auror Shacklebolt, now actually smiling (it was the sort of smile authority figures gave to good children, but Roswitha ignored that). “Boys over here with me, please, and girls with Auror Tonks.”

Dean stuck out his tongue at her.

Roswitha rolled her eyes, but willed the compartment to expand so that the aurors might comfortably fit and have a little room to move around.

Shacklebolt turned to Nym. “Is that new? The express never did that when I went to school.”

Everyone turned to look at Roswitha, and again she had to wonder how they had managed to keep stealing an ancient artifact a secret from the world at large. Nym turned to her too, getting a look Andromeda adopted when she wanted information, but thought herself too big to ask for it. “Yes it was me, no I don’t know how it works, I just asked it to.”

“Do magical objects often obey your commands?” Auror Shacklebolt asked.

Roswitha hummed. “On the understanding that anything I say without my parents present will not hold in a court of law due to my age: no. Magical buildings, however, do tend to listen and respond to me, at least a little.”

“I thought we were going to be searched,” Seamus blurted out, before he flushed a bright red.

Shacklebolt and Nym shrugged off Roswitha’s odd ability and then set about on their searches It took them perhaps twenty minutes before they moved on to the next compartment. It was well past noon at this point, so Roswitha took out her basket and the others took out food they had brought as well. “Should we have invited them to stay?” asked Seamus, looking to the door.

Roswitha, still angry with Nymphadora, shook her head, saying, “They probably won’t have time. Let’s let them get on with their work.”

There were a few among her who pouted, but they didn’t disagree.

In addition to the pride, Justin had stuck with them this long, and Padma had opted to sit with Parvati for the trip. Others began to join them, now that it was lunch time and they were free of being searched by the aurors.

“I can’t believe I had to let Cousin Nym search me,” Draco moaned even as they were mostly through lunch. “How _embarrassing.”_

“_You_?” said Susan, rolling her eyes. “Most of the aurors on the train have known me since I was a baby or since they became aurors. A few of them changed my _diapers_. You have nothing on me, Malfoy.”

“What are they even looking for?” Justin asked aloud as he looked up from the curry he had been eating.

“Poison,” said all of the Ravenclaws at once, as they had clearly been giving it some thought. 

“Some sort of poison that would cause petrification anyway,” said Padma, with a shrug.

Aside from the auror presence the trip back to school was quite uneventful. Roswitha ran into Lord Theseus again, this time Dr. Scamander and Mr. Graves were with him. “Oh, Miss Black,” said Dr. Scamander fumbling with her pockets as Roswitha passed. “Our son, Rolf, has asked if I see you to give you an address for him. If you’re agreeable, he’d like to begin a correspondence with you.” At last, Dr. Scamander produced a slip of parchment, which she passed over to Roswitha.

Roswitha took it agreeably – Rolf had been fun to debate with this past summer and would no doubt make a good pen friend.

There was something, though, Roswitha could not help but notice there seemed to be an attitude on the train – one that went in a single direction to any Slytherin who was out and about. As she made her way back from the bathroom, even Roswitha noticed a towering older boy standing over Astoria Greengrass, Daphne’s sister from two years above them, and pressing her into the wall. She couldn’t quite tell what was going on, but she could tell Astoria was afraid.

Roswitha planted herself quite firmly in front of them, saying, “Sorry to interrupt, but can you come and help me with my Herbology homework Astoria? You did promise.”

Astoria’s brow furrowed and in the next second she lit up. “I did promise, didn’t I? I have to go, Travers.”

The boy, though, didn’t seem to take the hint. “We are not done here,” said Travers as he reached out and grabbed Astoria by the wrist.

“Ow!” Astoria hissed. “Let me go!”

“You Slytherins think you can walk around like you own the place and –”

“We’re just as afraid as you are!” said Astoria, trying to pull her wrist back.

“Let her go,” said Roswitha, as firmly as she could manage. A small bubble of fear pushed its way to the back of her throat – Travers was a sixth year, after all. As talented as Roswitha was, he probably knew more spells by virtue of being older and more mean spirited things by vice of being a bully. She popped the bubble, though, because it was right to help Astoria and Travers probably did not know how to box.

Travers smirked at her. “Or what, Black? You’ll fight me?”

“If I have to,” said Roswitha. She felt a smile overtake her as she noticed movement behind Travers’ shoulder. “Or, I could just alert the several aurors behind you to what you’ve done.”

“That’s a capital choice,” said Auror Shaklebolt as he and Nym appeared behind Travers with a few other aurors in tow. “Always better to alert the authorities. Young man, you will let go of her and accompany me to the guard’s van. Auror Tonks, gather statements and see to healing if needed. Everyone else, I believe it’s time for a patrol.”

“Yes, sir,” chimed the aurors present.

When all had dispersed, Astoria finally broke down in tears. “It isn’t _fair_,” she said.

Mindful of Astoria’s wrist, Roswitha wrapped her up in a hug, and Astoria hugged back tightly. Nym was a large help as well, nudging Astoria into a mostly unoccupied compartment (there were two girls of her own year inside who recognized her in an instant and helped to comfort her), and rubbing her back soothingly. When Astoria managed to stop crying, now covered in a traveling blanket and blowing her nose in a spare handkerchief, she held up her wrist. “It hurts, but I don’t think it's broken.”

Nym shook her head. “Your father is going to have that boy’s head. Would someone run and fetch Madam Scamander? She’s probably got the most healing skills of anyone on the train. Not you Ros, I need your statement.”

Roswitha, who had already risen, sank back down. “I saw her near the bathrooms with Lord Theseus and Mr. Graves not too long ago.”

The other girls volunteered to go together and set out to look for the magizoologist while Roswitha and Astoria gave their statements.

Astoria put on as brave a face as she could manage, telling about how she was coming back from the snack trolley when Travers accosted her and demanded to know what the Slytherins were on about with the petrification business. “When I told him he didn’t know anymore than anyone else, he called me a liar,” she said, sniffling. “He said I had to know _something_ because the Slytherins talk to each other because they can’t talk to anyone else, and if I didn’t tell him, someone else would. That was when Roswitha came up and asked me to help her with herbology homework.”

Nym turned to her. “What now?”

“Well, I had to say something,” said Roswitha, shrugging. “I’m not the best at herbology so it was the first thing that came to mind. I figured it was better than going right after Travers with a one-two punch.”

“I appreciate it,” said Nym with a smile. “What happened next?”

“Well, we tried to leave but Travers grabbed me,” said Astoria, sniffling again. Her wrist was still quite red and had begun to swell at this point. “Roswitha looked like she might fight him then, but she called out to the aurors instead.” Here Astoria turned to Roswitha and managed a watery smile. “Thank you, Roswitha, I don’t know…” For a moment, Roswitha thought Astoria might start crying again. Instead a fury rose to blaze in her eyes. “It’s so stupid! I’m one of the best in my year at defense, and I didn’t _do_ anything.”

“It isn’t stupid,” said Nym, reaching out and squeezing her good hand. “Everybody gets scared –everybody. And sometimes when you’re scared it’s harder to realize what to do. I’ll tell you something, when they put us through auror training, everyone freezes up in their first simulations.”

“Even the boys?” Astoria asked, frowning.

“Especially the boys,” said Nym, with a wry smile. “They’re used to ignoring whatever makes them scared, but girls have to face it head on more often.”

A knock caught all of their attentions, and they turned to see Dr. Scamander waiting through the window of the compartment door. Tonks went to open it and invited Dr. Scamander in, along with the two girls who had gone to fetch her. Dr. Scamander sat down next to Astoria and gingerly took hold of her wrist.

“Have you gotten a good look at this, Auror Tonks?” Dr. Scamander asked, turning to Tonks.

“Yes, Madam,” said Tonks with a nod. “I’ll be able to give a clear memory of it, if the Greengrasses choose to press charges.”

Dr. Scamander nodded, flexing Astoria’s wrist and pressing her fingers down to feel the bones, narrating what she would do as she went along. Astoria gave a few little groans of pain, but Roswitha offered to hold her uninjured hand so that she could squeeze if something really hurt.

“The good news is that it does not appear that anything is broken,” said Dr. Scamander once she had finished her examination. “The muscles do appear to be bruised and twisted and will likely swell for a few days. I can’t heal this outright, but I can rub on a bruise balm and an anti-inflamtory paste before I wrap your wrist. That should take most if not all the pain away before you see Madam Pomfrey, and she makes a determination.”

Astoria consented to all of this, and as Dr. Scamander began to apply the paste, Daphne came to the compartment with Millicent and an older Slytherin who had escorted them. “Tori! Are you alright?”

“I’m fine now, Daphne,” said Astoria, though Roswitha still gave up her seat so that Daphne could cuddle up to her older sister.

“Father’s going to loose his bloody mind,” said Daphne, looking at Astoria’s injuried wrist. “Mother too.”

Astoria scowled at her younger sister. “Don’t say bloody.”

Roswitha gave a meaningful eye to Nym, who nodded to dismiss her. Taking Millicent by the arm, Roswitha left the compartment, closing it behind them. “Let’s give them some room,” she said.

Millicent nodded and looked up at the older Slytherin. “Walk with us back to Roswitha’s compartment?”

The older Slytherin nodded. “I suppose we do owe you one, Black,” they said as the three of them began to walk away.

“What for?” Roswitha inquired, as they flattened to one side so some aurors might pass on the other.

Millicent rolled her eyes, but the older Slytherin actually looked shocked. “What do you mean, ‘what for?’ You saved a Slytherin girl when most other people would have looked the other way.”

“I helped someone who was being menaced by someone else,” said Roswitha, slowly. “I don’t see what houses have to do with it.”

The older Slytherin opened their mouth again, but Milicent only shook her head. “Leave it be, Ledford. Roswitha doesn’t count things like that. Never has – we all get a vote during year meetings even.”

Ledford considered this for a moment before they said, “You’re an odd duck, Black.”

“Thanks, I think,” said Roswitha.

Millicent and Ledford dropped Roswitha at the compartment which the Pride occupied before going on to their own seats.

Somone (probably Dean) had tapped up a large piece of paper over the outside wall of the compartment and they were in the midst of planning the play. They looked up when she came in, frowning over her.

“We heard someone was hurt down the train,” said Ron, as he pulled her into the seat next to him.

Roswitha shook her head. “Wasn’t me – Astoria Greengrass, Daphne’s older sister.” She pursed her lips before added. “We may need to look out for some of the older students – not everybody, but some people have got it into their heads that they can go around hurting people with no recourse.”

“Great,” said Sophie, rolling her eyes and huffing. “Now we have to worry about the upper years as well as whatever is petrifying people.”

“Get the aurors if you can,” said Roswitha, firmly. “Luckily we had some nearby.”

There were rumors swirling around for the rest of the train ride, and they began to take shape as everyone left the train to take the carriages up to the castle. Apparently, Travers and a few other sixth Ravenclaws had made certain deductions about the petrifications (what deductions, apparently they wouldn’t say until their parents arrived) that made them absolutely certain a Slytherin was responsible for the petrifications. After that, rather than sharing their thoughts, they had made a plan to simply catch Slytherins individually and menace them until they gave up information.

“Beyond cruel, that’s just a stupid plan,” Hermione muttered when they learned this last tidbit.

Daphne and Astoria were both missing from supper, and Roswitha wondered if Daphne was just with her sister, or if their parents had opted to take them both out of school. 

Something had to be done, she thought. Something more than fighting each other in the halls or on trains. Roswitha thought on it all through supper, and even lay awake as she tried to think up a solution. She couldn’t before she fell asleep, and so it still bothered her in the morning when she woke for breakfast the next day.

It was a Friday, so though they didn’t have classes until Monday, Roswitha dressed as she normally would, then went to poke Percy to see if he wanted to come to that day’s occlumency lesson with her.

He was in the same bed as Oliver again, and he glared up at her blearily – or he tried too, but he really was quite near sighted without his glasses. At last, Percy huffed and said, “Alright, I’ll come. Out with you, I need to get dressed.”

“Noooo,” Oliver mumbled as he wrapped himself more tightly around Percy.

Roswitha giggled and left them to snuggle together a little while longer. She, wondered as she took the stairs down into the common room, if Percy and Oliver just slept in the same bed together, or if they were having sex as well. She kept that ponderance to herself as Percy came down for breakfast, fixing the clasp on his robe – underneath he wore a grey sweater, but no tie and denims instead of his normal trousers. Roswitha didn’t comment as she kept things quite casual as well.

“No one else with us today?” Percy asked.

“I’m letting them have a lie in,” said Roswitha, shrugging. “They were all up play planning last night pretty late.”

It seemed everyone was having a lie in that day – few faculty were up at the high table and there were only a few students here abouts up and ready for breakfast. Even the aurors on duty stifled yawns as they worked. Roswitha thought of offering them a cup of tea, but then decided not to as it might looking like they were slacking off and get them in trouble.

More and more students began to join them, the closer breakfast came to closing, including the Pride and Oliver, who rested his head on Percy’s shoulder and appeared to snooze for another few minutes.

“Having a boyfriend must be weird,” Ron declared as he drank down a cup of tea.

Percy shrugged a little, making Oliver wuffle and reposition himself. “If you ever have one, I suppose you’ll find out for sure. Roswitha, when do you normally head over for occlumency?”

“Usually at a quarter ‘til nine,” said Roswitha, pulling out her watch. It was still only eight-thirty. 

When the ten minutes had passed, Percy managed to pull himself away from Oliver, and they left together toward the headmaster’s office.

The door to Dumbledore’s office stood closed when they arrived, but Roswitha simply knocked.

“Enter,” said Dumbledore, and they obeyed.

Percy looked much as Roswitha had when she first entered this office – it was an amazing sight, what with Dumbledore’s lifetime of books and artifacts and baubles.

Roswitha though, went to Fawkes. Fawkes now snoozed among the ashes, a grey, featherless hatchling with eyes swollen shut. It seemed he had at last gotten too old and gone through his burning. “Poor bird,” said Roswitha as she went to sit in her spot before Dumbledore’s desk. “Does burning hurt him at all?”

“Good morning to you as well, Miss Black,” said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling.

“Oh.” Rowitha flushed. “Good morning, sir. Apologies.”

A smile spread across his face. “You shall have to try to remember that it won’t just be you or I here anymore, dear girl. And good morning and welcome to you, Mr. Weasley.”

“Good morning, Professor,” said Percy as he sat down in the chair next to Roswitha.

“But to answer your question, no, I do not know if his burning hurts Fawkes,” said Professor Dumbledore, leaning back in his own wingback chair. Roswitha turned to stare at Fawkes while he spoke. “I imagine it does not – phoenix fire, like their tears, is even said to heal those in need of it. It would be quite the thing if it helped others but hurt the phoenix. I see though, there is something more on your mind.”

Roswitha blinked and focused on him. “Really? Did you cast a legilimens?”

Dumbledore shook his head. “I simply know when you look distracted. Most everyone was quite glad our first day back to school was a Friday without classes, and even with our arrangement, I did not expect you to come to lessons today, much less drag Mr. Weasley with you.”

“I didn’t drag,” Roswitha protested, looking to Percy to confirm her belief. “I only asked.”

Percy frowned a little, though. “You came up to the boys’ dorm to do so. It was a bit like dragging.”

Roswitha slumped in her chair. “I’m trying to figure out what’s to be done about those Ravenclaw boys.”

Both Dumbledpre and Percy frowned at her. “That is not your decision, my girl,” said Dumbledore, folding his fingers together in a sort of tent. “And I hope you will not think of enacting vigilante justice.”

“No! No, of course not, that’s not what I meant. Let me think about this a moment.”

They both gave her the moment, silence clouding the air as Roswitha tried to make sense of her thoughts. When, after a minute or so, she had not overturned a clear path of what she wanted to say, she began where her thoughts had begun yesterday. “After what happened with Travers and Astoria yesterday, I started thinking about what we would have to do so that something like that didn’t happen again.”

“Ah,” said Dumbledore, as he popped a sherbert lemon into his mouth. “Define: we.”

Roswitha hummed for a moment. “Myself and my peers, that is the students of Hogwarts.”

“Why only us?” Percy asked, turning toward her. She watched him resist temptation to sit as he sometimes did with his feet over the legs of the chair. “Why not the Professors or the aurors? Surely they can break up any altercations that occur.”

“For one thing,” said Roswitha, licking her lips, “the professors and aurors will not always be around. In fact, after the whole petrification business, the aurors will be going back to their regular posts. Of the professors there are fewer than twenty, and they do a fine job educating us, but you’re a prefect and Professor Dumbledore, you used to be a troublemaker. I think you both know what can go on behind the backs of the faculty and staff here.”

Percy began to protest her calling the headmaster a troublemaker.

Dumbledore objected on the point that he still _was_ a troublemaker, thank you very much.

“Alright,” said Roswitha, not bothering to hide her grin. “But you agree, don’t you? There’s plenty going on that professors don’t know about, even if there’s plenty going on that they do. Little things – little slurs, little curses, little actions that one hundred professors working together couldn’t catch. So, I started thinking, it has to be the students who really organize to make sure something like that doesn’t happen again.

“I don’t like the idea of fighting in the corridors for a number of reasons: for one thing, if people are trying to create harm, they’ve succeeded then, no matter what. For another, if we’re fighting with them, that means they’ve been caught doing harm and therefore no harm was prevented. For a third, such an act seems to say that violence rules more than belief, and I’d like to think that wasn’t true.”

Dumbledore let her finish and sat for a moment in silence before he answered, “You, my dear, have discovered a problem every statesmen, king, and even headteacher has stumbled upon in their time: how to unite a people who seem not to wish to be united. It is not a problem easily solved – sometimes it is not solvable at all.”

“If the houses are dividing people,” said Percy, slowly, his brows furrowed, “then might we try eliminating the houses?”

“Ah,” said Dumbledore with a smile. “But are the _houses_ dividing people?”

Percy frowned and nibbled his lip. “Well, it seems so, on the surface, but…”

“But beneath that surface,” said Dumbledore, shaking his head, “there is so much more which causes a division. You might wish to look through the school records, Mr. Weasley for the academic years between 1789 and 1793. The Headmistress had the same idea, but when executed it did not provide the results for which she had hoped.”

Roswitha rubbed her forehead. “I just wish it didn’t have to be this way. I wish I could snap my fingers and have everyone get along in some way that didn’t deprive them of their free will.”

Dumbledore laughed, and even Percy smiled at her expression. “Well,” said Dumbledore. “If you find such a method, share it with me, and we will employ it post haste. For now, and in light of trying events, why don’t we dismiss early today?”

Roswitha and Percy nodded collecting heir things and packing their bags.

When they left the office, though, and came to the bottom of the spiral stair, the found themselves face to face with a group of their peers, listing through every candy they knew. It was a rather odd group composed of Astoria and Daphne, Penelope and Padma, Susan and Cedric.

At the sight of them, Roswitha slapped a hand against her forehead and said, “I’m an idiot.”

Penelope, who was among their delegation, frowned at her. “You’re not an idiot, Roswitha, don’t say that.”

“Not generally,” Roswitha replied, shaking her head. “Just right now, a little bit. I’ve been trying to solve a problem on my own with only the perspective of Gryffindors, when the problem affects the whole school.”

Daphne groaned and slapped a hand over her eyes. “Please, Roswitha, we just came to say thank you, it’s too early to make my head hurt.”

“Thank you for what?” Roswitha asked wrinkling her nose. “Anyway, I think I can boil it down to a simple question: where is the school most divided?”

She meant on politics or beliefs, but to her surprise, Astoria replied, as she shook her head, “The Great Hall – and yes, we really do. Travers could have hurt me quite badly, for all we know you saved my life.”

Roswitha flushed at their acknowledgements. “Oh, well, I just did what was right.”

“It wouldn’t be right to everyone,” said Astoria, her mouth quirking upwards into a small smile.

“I did what was kind then,” said Roswitha, firmly.

Astoria, perhaps seeing that Roswitha could not take the praise, smiled wider and said, “Very well. What’s this about the school being divided?”

“Well, we are,” said Susan giving a small shrug. Hannah was absent from her side and in her place stood Cedric Diggory.

Roswitha really wanted to know how their little group came to life: Astoria and Daphne together she could understand, but alongside Cedric, Susan, Padma and Penelope, it really was an odd group. So she asked.

“Astoria and Daphne wanted to come find you,” said Penelope, with a smile, “and I was the only one who knew where the headmaster’s office was. Susan and Padma came for support and Cedric came along so Susan didn’t punch anyone.”

“Ah,” said Roswitha, nodding. “And, yes, we _are _divided,” she added echoing Susan’s statement. “And I don’t mean to fix everything overnight, mind –”

“Wouldn’t be possible anyhow,” said Daphne, ever the practical Slytherin.

“But a small change,” said Roswitha, pressing on, “or small changes over time might help. I hadn’t thought of the Great Hall, but we are literally divided there, aren’t we?”

Everyone else thought on it as well, and Cedric wrinkled up his nose. “Well, there’s no rule that says we can’t sit at other tables.”

“But no one _does_, Cedric,” said Astoria, stressing her words.

Penelope frowned and rubbed her forehead. “And even if we were to, I don’t know, spark a movement of sitting at other tables, it would take an awfully big movement before people actually changed.”

“What about a round table?” Padma asked, causing everyone’s attention to land on her. “Er, well, it works in our club house. We have a round table so everyone sits equally.”

“A round table for over a thousand people might be a bit of a stretch, even for Hogwarts,” said Daphne, taking Padma by the hand with a light squeeze.

“Several smaller round tables then,” said Padma, squeezing back. “Small enough so they can’t fit a hole house at but large enough for Justin to play – oh what’s the game he’s always going on about?”

“Dungeons and Dragons,” Cedric and Susan answered dutifully in tandem.

“That would leave the question,” said Percy, having been silent for sometime that Roswitha nearly forgot he was standing over her shoulder, “Of where we would get enough tables to hold the whole school.”

Roswitha thought of Menacant and its attic where it stored anything the Head of the House did not need at the time. She twisted the heavy signet ring on her finger. “Well, the school has to have a store room.”

“Has to?” Penelope asked.

“Well, maybe not has to,” said Roswitha, shrugging, still twisting her ring. “But for a structure as large and as magical and as old as Hogwarts is? It would make sense. We have one at home in the attic.”

“Alright, do you know where it is?” Astoria asked, challenging her just a bit.

“No, but wait here a moment,” said Roswitha, as a thought struck her. She darted back up the spiral stairs to the headmaster’s office. When she appeared in the doorway, Dumbledore looked up at her from the correspondence he had been composing. “Sir,” she said, “do you remember last year when you said I should ask permission to do something rather than forgiveness for having done it?”

“I do,” said Dumbledore, relaxing back in his chair.

“Then would you like to come on an adventure with me and some others?” Roswitha asked.

Dumbledore wave his hand. “My dear girl, I have a great deal to be done today, especially in light of recent events. Therefore,” Dumbledore stood and straightened out his robes. “I would love nothing more than to come with you on an adventure.”

Roswitha laughed and off they went.

It turned out, Dumbledore knew exactly where the Hogwarts store room was. He cast a patronus charm inviting Dr. Scamander to meet them on the seventh floor by the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy teaching trolls ballet. Dr. Scamander arrived when Dumbledore was pacing three times back and forth on the wall opposite the tapestry, causing a door to appear.

“Now then,” said Professor Dumbledore, as he opened up the room before them. “There is no telling what precisely this room holds. Therefore, no one, not even prefects or head students will enter this room unaccompanied by a full trained wizard.” He looked at everyone one of them individually so all objections died on the tongue, even Dr. Scamander.

She huffed. “Albus I _am_ a fully trained wizard. I have been since 1915!”

“You were my student once,” said Dumbledore with mirth laced through his words. “Old habits and all that.”

They entered the room, and immediately, Roswitha saw how it could be dangerous. The attic at home was large, and unfathomably deep (possibly because everyone was a bit too afraid to fathom it), but organized in a way which made sense with clothes in wardrobes, like with like. This room was well lit and stood over a hundred feet high – it’s depths stretch on and on, further than Roswitha could see. There was no organization to be found here, simply piles and piles of things all meshed together with no regard for anything that matched up with other items in the room.

“What are we looking for again?” Percy asked, his face looking as if his mind were thrumming into a mild panic.

Penelope took his hand and rubbed her thumb across the back of Percy’s. “Tables, dearest, tables.”

“Shall we divide the young ones up then?” Dr. Scamander asked Professor Dumbledore. “Four with you and four with me?”

Roswitha wandered toward Dr. Scamander when they agreed on splitting up, simply because she thought there were others who might be more comfortable with the headmaster. He muttered at her, “et tu Brute?” which made Roswitha giggle, but she stayed in place. Her yearmates joined her, which Doctor Scamander took in stride as the older students seemed to know one another better anyway.

“What are we doing with the tables when we find them?” Astoria asked, turning to Professor Dumbledore.

Professor Dumbledore, however, turned to Roswitha.

“Just count the number you find,” said Roswitha, nodding. She was reasonably confident that she could get Hogwarts to help with the actual rearranging. If for some reason it wouldn’t, Roswitha could talk to Professor Dumbledore afterwards to request the assistance of the castle elves. “We’ll need fifty to one hundred, depending on their size.”

“There are worse ways to spend a Friday,” said Cedric brightly.

The junk pile split off soon, so Dr. Scamander’s group when to the right, trying to spot tables underneath all the… Roswitha hesitated to call it junk. She could spot perfectly good items like a broom here, a cloak there, a hat stand, wardrobes, desks and more. But mixed in together in piles and piles… there was a certain junk quality about all of it.

Dr. Scamander seemed to feel the same way, as she held up a book and blew the dust off it. “All of this going to waste. We could clothe half the population of Britain with what’s in here.”

“It is pretty shabby to keep a store room like this,” said Daphne, as she moved aside a trunk to see table legs. “That’s one – wait, how are we keeping count?”

Roswitha pulled out a notebook from her satchel and a pen. “Just call out, I’ll mark them down.”

“I’ve another over here,” said Padma, standing on a pile. “Two I think.”

“Stay where I can see all of you,” said Dr. Scamander as they began to move through the room.

“One here!” said Susan, as she pushed through a pile. “You know, we ought to organize all of this.”

“Do you mean you, as in the students?” Dr. Scamander asked. “Or you as in the castle house elves?”

“Us as in the students,” said Susan, firmly. “The house elves make our food and keep the rest of the castle clean, they don’t have time to – I think I found a sword!” Susan pulled it free of the pile she was working on and it was indeed a broad sword, still sheathed in its leather scabbard which had been attached to a belt. “Neat!”

“I agree with Susan,” said Roswitha, marking off a table as Daphne called out for one. “It will be a bit of a task to get others to agree with us, though.”

“We could go through as we are now,” said Padma. “There’s several here, Ros, I think eight all stacked together. Just instead of looking for tables, one time we look for clothes, the next we look for books, the next we look for, oh hello.” Padma struggled, so Susan went to her side and they pulled out a portrait. “Portraits!”

“My goodness!” said the woman in the portrait. “Why how long have I been down there?”

“Quite some time, it would seem, Madam,” said Roswitha.

“It is an admirable cause, students,” said Dr. Scamander as she pulled out her wand and cast a series of silent spells on the portrait so she would float and follow them as they walked. “And I don’t wish to discourage you, but you must realize, something this vast will take time to accomplish. Perhaps even years.”

The thought of spending _years_ on a project did give all of them pause.

“If we could get more people involved, though,” said Daphne, slowly, then she bent down looking at something. “Two tables here, Roswitha. If we could get other people involved, share the work, then maybe it wouldn’t take as long. Besides, even if something is hard, it could still be worth doing.”

Dr. Scamander had a wide smile as she pointed out another table to Roswitha. “Yes, indeed it could. Just make sure to frame your perspective and pace yourself so the work does not disappoint or overwhelm you later. Oh look, here’s another even dozen.”

They talked for some time more, about how they might clean up the Hogwarts store room so that it could be easily navigated and organized in a way to make it useable, as they walked along looking for tables. There were other treasures which caught their eyes as well – old writing desks, beautiful dresses from other ages, books, and jewelery.

But when Padma spotted the diadem resting on the old, haggard wig, Roswitha got a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Wait a minute,” she said, reaching out for Padma.

Padma pouted at her. “But I look good in blue things.”

“I know, I just had a thought – something we should have been doing along really.” Roswitha drew out her wand, and moving it in a spiral she cast, “_Manufeste praecantatio_.”

The diadem lit up with a stange, sickly green hue, and the letters horcruxum perdum floated out before disappearing.

At the sight of the spell, Dr. Scamander’s voice became firm. “Girls, back away from that, very slowly, but do not take your eyes off of it.”

Roswitha reached out for Padma’s hand, and Padma reached for her, as they did back away, step by step together until they knocked in to Dr. Scamander. Dr. Scamander had her wand out through which she produced a white creature that looked a little like a platypus. “Find Albus,” she commanded the creature. “Tell him I’ve found something dangerous, and they should cut a more direct path toward us.”

“I really must learn to use that spell,” said Roswitha as she wasted the creature speed off from the corner of her eye as her gaze returned to the strange diadem. “It really does seem quite useful.”

“The Patronus Charm really is quite useful,” said Dr. Scamander, her voice even and calm. “You cast it with the incantation _expecto patronum_. Not only can you use it to send messages, it works to help fight dark creatures – in particular dementors, but even creatures like boggarts are weak against the patronus.” As she spoke, Dr. Scamander took a step forward toward the diadem and grabbed a large swathe of fabric that looked as if it used to be a dress. She wrapped the fabric around the diadem in many layers, tying many knots, and only stopped to take a breath when she had finished. “In order to make the spell effective, you must think of a happy memory – one where joy filled every inch of your being. That’s better, now come along, girls, we’ll meet up with the others.”

It was a very strange incident as Dr. Scamander did not seem at all affected now that she had the diadem bundled up. The girls thought her reaction had been strange as well, for even if it was a cursed item, normally you were just supposed to leave those alone.

“What’s the memory you use, Dr. Scamender?” Daphne asked as they walked along

“I think about the days my children were born,” said Dr. Scamander, her package swinging in her grip as they walked along. “Or the first time my husband kissed me and told me he loved me. Or the day a thunderbird at last reacted to my touch with something other than fear. What would you think of, children?”

They all thought of happy memories as they made their way through the room, still counting off tables when they saw them. When they met up with the other group, though, Dumbledore’s bush brows furrowed intensely as he appeared to count the five of them and take in their appearances thoroughly.

“I’ll explain when we’re free of here,” said Dr. Scamander cheerfully. “As for now, I’m sure the children could use some lunch.”

As if on command, several of their stomachs growled. Flushed and hungry, their group started toward the exit, Dr. Scamander and Professor Dumbledore hanging behind and talking in low voices.

The students all trooped down to the Great Hall where lunch was now being served, while Dr. Scamander and Dumbledore went straight for his office.

“I hope they get something to eat,” said Roswitha as the adults split off from their group.

“They’re adults,” said Percy, shaking his head fondly at her. “I’m sure they will.”

The eight of them made their way to the Gryffindor table and sat there, situating themselves among Roswitha’s friends.

“…Ros?” said Dean after a moment.

“Yes, Dean?” Roswitha asked, helping herself to some chicken.

“Did you go adventuring…without _us?_” Dean put on a large pout and managed to make his eyes go wide and puppy like.

Without shame, Roswitha nodded and said, “I did.”

The entire pride broke out in complaints and protests.

“We’ll be going back,” sad Roswitha, enjoying their complaints, for that meant they were upset to have missed spending time with her. “And there will always be other adventures.”

“There had better be!” said Hermione, threatening her with a spoon.

If anyone complained on Monday morning when they entered the Great Hall and there were suddenly many, small tables for students to sit at rather than the four long ones, Roswitha didn’t notice. Probably because Draco claimed the seat next to her immediately and asked what she had written her potions essay on.


	7. Parselmouth

Classes returned on Monday after a weekend of Roswitha writing out a new schedule for herself that included time for correspondence and trying to figure out where would be a good place to have a professor go with students into the Store Room. She realized she would probably have to ask Professor Dumbledore about that last one anyway, and so left off after only a short while and focused on writing letters to her pappa and to Rolf. The rest of the weekend, she listened to her friends talk about the play and when they could hold auditions, went over her homework from the break, or reviewed her own lesson plans (in particular, adding an assignment toward the end of the year where they were all to think of their happiest memories in order to try the patronus charm).

Things went well, their first week back to school – as everyone began to attend classes any stress or terror at the thought of returning slowly began to ebb away. Things were as normal as they could be at Hogwarts. Once students came to realize that there would not be someone waiting to petrify them around every corner, they relaxed.

Towards the end of the first week, though, a notice began circulating about a dueling club that would begin meeting on Thursday evenings.

“We have to go to this!” said Ron, waving around the notice.

Lavender snatched it from him to properly read it. “Beginning Thursday January 21st, from seven to nine in the Great Hall.”

“That puts me out, I’m afraid,” said Roswitha, shaking her head.

“Me too,” chimed Neville and Parvati.

“Can’t you skip etiquette club just once?” Seamus asked, wrinkling his nose anyway. “Didn’t you learn it all last year besides?”

“No and no,” said Roswitha, wrinkling her nose back at him. “Even if the unofficial rule is that you can’t come back for the rest of the year, I think Kent might come after us…” She trailed off, having been ready to make a joke about knives in the night time, and ended instead with, “and take us to detention or something. She is headgirl this year, you know. Besides, I also have my cousin Narcissa to worry about.”

“And my Gran,” said Neville, nodding.

It turned out to be a moot point as Kent went around on Wednesday night dinner to tell everyone to attending the dueling club on Thursday night as their etiquette lesson. “Dueling etiquette is often ignored this day and age,” said Kent, as her followers nodded along with her words.

Roswitha agreed, as had Neville and Parvati, if only because it gave them a chance to hang around their friends for the evening and not have to practice the twelve different essential waves.

She regretted everything just as soon as the dinner dishes cleared away and the dueling club began. For instead of an auror or Professor Flitwick (a known dueling champion) or Professor Dumbledore, Lockhart strowed out onto the make shift dueling platform in a luminescent blue outfit. “Frigg preserve me, and Odin tell me this isn’t happening,” she muttered looking up at him.

“…Maybe he’s better at dueling?” Hermione suggested. “And look, there’s Professor Snape.”

Father did appear to be walking behind Lockhart as he began to introduce his dueling club. Roswitha remembered her Father’s found desire to clock Lockhart, however he had chosen to describe it, and thought that things might get interesting. She wondered if they would be interesting enough to stay though. Ah, one of Kent’s cronies was standing at the door of the Great Hall. If Roswitha tried to sneak out now, someone would surely notice and she would be out of etiquette club for the year.

On the dueling platform, Lockhart and Father squared off against one another, bowing to one another, wands pressed against their noses, then raising their bodies, slashing their arms to the side, spelless, before turning to walk ten paces away from one another.

Could Narcissa be made to understand that she had a good reason for quitting etiquette half way through the year. Pappa and Father had gone to school with Lockhart and so knew how insufferable he was, maybe Cousin Narcissa did as well.

Lockhart’s first spell didn’t even make it off his lips, before Father cast an expertly executed expelliarmus – it hit Lockhart at his core, causing him not only to lose his wand, but to fall back on his arse. Roswitha, and many of her peers, grinned and stifled a giggle.

“Coee,” said Nym, and Roswitha turned to find her cousin over her shoulder. “I had some bad’uns in my time here, but nothing like this clown.”

“Father calls him ‘the Fool’ at family dinners,” said Roswitha softly.

Auror Shacklebolt snorted. “Couldn’t have put it better myself – and Severus and I squared off against one another a lot when we were in school together.”

“You went to school with my parents?” Roswitha asked as Lockhart recovered his wand and began to expound that he had absolutely one hundred percent _allowed_ Professor Snape to disarm him. It was good that they had all seen such a prime example of the spell.

“Same year as Severus there,” said Auror Shacklebolt, nodding up to her father on the platform. “Gryffindor, though, so we hated each other for the best and the worst reasons in the world.”

Nym rolled her eyes. “What a lot of nonsense,” she said. “This is why I was glad to be a Hufflepuff, no wars in the hallways.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Auror Shacklebolt giving her a wide grin. “We kept all wars on the lawn – the hallways were too narrow. Professor Lockhart, perhaps I could demonstrate some dueling techniques against Professor Snape?”

A murmur of approval rose from the crowd. Watching Professor Snape trounce Lockhart would have been immensely funny. Learning something from a professional, at this point in the year would have been even better though.

Lockhart lit up at the thought of saving his tailbone from further bruising. “A capital idea, Auror… erm…”

Father frowned at the fool. “Auror _Shacklebolt_ will be a worthy opponent indeed.”

“Mind holding my cloak?” Shacklebolt asked Nym as he was shrugging it off.

Nym rolled her eyes. “I’m on probation, not a coat rack.” Still she took his cloak, adding, “Don’t make a habit of it.”

Shacklebolt winked at Nym in return, and Roswitha swore she heard several classmates sigh in adoration. Shacklebolt lifted himself onto stage in one fluid motion before he pulled out his wand and got into position.

Roswitha thought for a moment she should be worried, but then she saw Father had a positive grin of delight on his face as they bowed to one another.

What happened after was pure poetry – when the two of them started to duel they nearly went so fast that Roswitha couldn’t tell what was happening, almost. Even so as they traded spells back and forth, Roswitha didn’t know the names for half of them. They blocked and parred each other with shield charms, water, fire, levitation, tickling charms and more. Those closest to the platform began to back away a little lest they get caught in the crossfire, but Rowitha found herself drawn closer. The two of them were using magic in ways Roswitha had never known it could be used before. It was absolutely beautiful.

Nym had to grab hold to the back of her robes. “Careful, cos’, don’t get too close or you might loose your eyebrows.”

“They’d grow back,” said Roswitha, fidgeting against her cousin’s hold.

In response, Nym gave a shrill whistle. “Oi! You two! Wrap it up before one of the sprogs gets a bad idea.”

The students giggled, especially when Shacklebolt and Father stopped dueling completely and turned to stare at Nym. Nym only shrugged back at them.

“Draw?” Shacklebolt asked, panting as he held out his hand to Father.

Father took it, panting as well, and shook with Shacklebolt. “Draw.”

Applause rose up from the assemblage.

“Excellent, excellent,” said Lockhart as he came back into the spotlight giving a polite golf clap. “Now, what can we learn from this duel?”

For once, Roswitha was excited to answer one of his questions. Lockhart called on someone else though and once the other person had answered (they were on the other side of the platform, so Roswitha could not hear what they had said), Lockhart said, “excellent! Now, shall we break you up into pairs to practice dueling on your own. Find a partner and square off, bow to one another and practice sending spells back and forth.”

Roswitha brightened a little. “Hey, cos’, want to duel me?”

Nym rolled her eyes and held out Shacklebolt’s cloak as Shacklebolt jumped off the dueling stage. “Yes, because this didn’t have _enough_ potential to end in tears. Go fight someone your own size, Ros. Permission to patrol the room, Auror Shacklebolt?”

“Granted, Auror Tonks,” said Shaklebolt, with a grin that reminded Roswitha of the way Cousin Ted grinned at Andromeda. Shacklebolt turned to look at her just as Roswitha narrowed her eyes at him. “Something wrong Miss Black?” he asked.

Checking to make sure Nym was out of earshot, Roswitha said, “If you hurt my cousin, I will find a way to inconvenience you for every day of the rest of your life.”

“Only inconvenience?” asked Shacklebolt, a smile on his lips.

“Seemed like a bad idea to threaten to kill an auror,” said Roswitha, shrugging.

Shacklebolt snorted, laughter ending with a wider smile than before. “Oh, we’re going to have to look out for you. Off you go, Miss Black, find someone to practice with.” Then, Shacklebolt went off to patrol the room as well.

Susan found Roswitha not a moment later, asking, “Duel me?” before she had fully come to a stop.

Giggling, Roswitha said, “Sure!”

They found a space unoccupied by most and squared off against one another before they bowed and began. Roswitha cast a shield charm to Susan’s leg locker curse, then a giggling charm followed by an _aguamenti_. Around her giggles, the sight of water made Susan cast an instinctual shield charm which blocked the water. Susan recovered quickly and hit Roswitha with something that knocked her back into the wall.

“Oof,” said Roswitha, feeling all the air knocked out of her.

“Oh gosh!” said Susan, rushing toward her. “You alright?”

Roswitha patted down her midsection – everything felt fine enough, nothing broken, and at worst a few bruises. “Think so. That was a good one! What’s it called?”

Susan grinned. “It’s a burst of wind. Works a little like expelliarmus, but doesn’t take your wand away from you.” They talked through the incantation and wand movement for a minute before Draco found them.

“Who won?” he asked.

“Susan,” Roswitha reported. “Did you want next?”

“Hmm,” said Draco, sizing her up. “Dueling a Bones should be educational.”

Susan smiled sweetly at him, hiding venom behind her lips as she said, “That’s one way to put it.”

Draco grinned back and they squared off against one another.

“Should I remind the two of you that you really shouldn’t cast any lethal spells against one another?” Roswitha asked, as a few of their peers came over to watch. 

“Sure,” said Susan, as she bowed to Draco.

Justin, who had appeared at one of Roswitha’s sides snickered. “Oh, Malfoy doesn’t know what he’s in for. Susan trounces everyone in spell practice.”

Ron, from her other side began to giggle as they watched.

Susan held back nothing during the duel, and for a time Draco held his one, parrying with shields and casting spells back at her, a few of which managed to land. But when more of Susan’s spells began to land on him, Draco began to look a little run down. Susan began to press him back against the wall, and Roswitha could see the desperation in her cousin’s face as he called out, “_Serpensortia_.”

A snake flew from the end of Draco’s wand in Susan’s direction. Susan let out a little scream and dodged toward her left, where most of their year had formed a little crowd to watch them. The snake had not come close to Susan, and instead had landed midway between her and Draco.

The snake seemed angry as it coiled up and began to hiss at all around it. Everyone else began to take a step back, but Roswitha stepped forward, intent on grabbing the snake by its neck so it didn’t bite anyone.

“Wait!” Justin grabbed her by her robe. “That’s a coral snake.”

Roswitha tilted her head to look at the snake. “It looks more like a kingsnake to me.” She wished she could just talk to the snake and ask, as well as calm it down when she did, but with so many people around, her parents would kill her if she did. “They’re constrictors not venomous.”

“But coral snakes _are_ venomous,” said Justin, his grip on her robe becoming so tight his knuckles turned white. “And are you _sure_ you know which it is?”

Roswitha didn’t know which it was, only that it looked more like a kingsnake than a coral snake. “Justin go get my father,” she said, trying to shake him off. “He should know how to banish a snake like this.”

Justin swallowed hard. “Ros, I don’t think I can move.”

“Fear of snakes?” Roswitha asked, keeping an eye on the snake.

“Uh-huh,” said Justin, growing closer to her.

“Well, just stay still – snakes mostly track movement,” said Roswitha, hoping someone had gone to get a professor or an auror.

The snake, now that it had gotten its bearings, had coiled up tight, flicking its tongue out to sense danger in a new, cold, environment. If they didn’t get it off the floor soon, it might be seriously hurt.

“What’s this then?” said Lockhart walking up to the situation.

Roswitha groaned – when she had wanted a professor, she hadn’t wanted this one!

“Not to worry, Miss Black, let’s just send this one back to where it belongs,” said Professor Lockhart giving her a smile and a wink.

Roswitha didn’t catch what he cast, but it wasn’t a banishment spell – all it did was launch the snake into the air. When the snake returned down from the top of the great hall, it landed, most unfortunately on Justin’s head.

Justin whimpered, “It’s on me, it’s on me, it’s on me.”

“Justin take a deep breath and don’t move,” Roswitha said, wishing she could turn her head more to get a better look at the snake’s markings. She couldn’t though – not that it mattered. This close to something like Justin’s neck a constrictor could do as much damage as a venomous snake. So she had to make a choice, and not long to choose.

Roswitha chose to protect Justin rather than herself. “_Hello,” _she hissed softly. “_Can you hear me?_”

The snake slithered down from Justin head until it’s head was by her ear. Roswitha could tell because when it spoke, its tongue flickered out and touched her ear. “_O speaker, why have you called me here? For death and pain_?”

”_No,” _said Roswitha in earnest. ”_Another called you here, knowing not what they did. I am The-One-of-Famed-Strength, how are you called?”_

_“I am the Ninth-One of my clutch, Eater of the Rattle,”_ said the snake.

“_You are a kingsnake then_,” said Roswitha.

“_Yes,” _hissed the snake. “_If I am not to die this night, will you lend me your warmth, One-of-Famed-Strength?”_

_”Yes, Rattle-Eater.” _Roswitha moved her free hand to pull away the layers of her robe, jumper and blouse_, “In here, Rattle-Eater. Wrap around my arm, but please do not wrap too tightly.”_

“_A thousand thanks, Famed-Strength_,” said Rattle-Eater, as the snake pushed its head under her clothes and found its way to her arm. “_This favor will be repaid_.”

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” said Justin, as Rattle-Eater made herself comfortable. “Is it going to bite you and eat you?”

Roswitha shook her head. “The snake was just as scared and confused as we were. She’s,” she thought Rattle-Eater was a she, “calmed down now, so things will be alright.”

Justin looked pale, as did many people around them, though for different reasons. Lockhart pointed to her as if she had just killed someone in front of him. “Parselmouth,” he squeaked out, not dissimilar to a mouse.

At last, Father appeared, Nym on his heels, and between the two of them they all but carried Roswitha out of the Great Hall. When they were some corridors away, Father put his hands on her face, saying, “How _could _ you. You promised us, Roswitha!”

Rattle-Eater squeezed her arm a little, not uncomfortably, but just moving and settling again now that they had stopped. Roswitha felt more like something was squeezing her stomach though, as she looked her father in the eye. “I… I had to. Justin was panicking, Rattle-Eater might have strangled him because she didn’t know what was going on. I’m sorry, but… I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Oh, cos’,” Nym sighed, scrubbing the heel of her hand against her eyes. “What are people going to say now? What are people going to do to you?”

Roswitha wanted to be brave and say something like no one would do anything to her that she didn’t want. Instead, the disappointment and sorrow on Nym’s and Father’s faces overwhelmed her, and Roswitha began to cry.

Father heaved a heavy sigh and took Roswitha into his arms, petting her hair and letting her cry onto his shoulder. "All will be well with time, my child. But distressed as you are, you need to know there are those who will persecute you for your actions. Come now, dry your tears. You've lost no love from me or your Pappa."

Roswitha pulled back and took a handkerchief from Father and dabbed at her eyes. "All I ever try to do is help people," she said before she blew her nose.

"I know that," said Father, a grimace still resting on his face. "And there are plenty of others who know that too."

Roswitha could tell that there was something more he didn't say, something like even if there were plenty of people that knew all she wanted to do was help, there were others who were going to think that she meant them harm now that they knew she could talk to snakes.

Nym looked up quite suddenly and drew her wand. "Show yourself!" she called out.

Sheepishly, nine Gryffindors shuffled out from around the corner of the corridor. Nym relaxed, putting her wand away. "What are you lot doing here?"

"We couldn't let the captain walk back to the dorm alone," said Dean, standing up straight. "Safety in numbers."

Nym narrowed her eyes at them. "And?"

The pride looked at one another and then back to them. "And we were GOING to be mad at her for not telling us about the parselmouth," said Lavender, ducking her head.

"But then you started crying," said Seamus.

Everyone nodded in agreement and the sight of them made Roswitha's heart sing a little.

Father sighed again. "Alright, then, off to bed, all of you. Tomorrow morning will be difficult enough. Roswitha give me the snake."

Roswitha, sad as she was, still tried to play coy, "What snake?"

Father only rolled her eyes at him. "The SNAKE — the one you called Rattle-Eater."

Roswitha frowned, but hissed gently, "_Rattle-Eater, I know you are not fully warmed yet, but I must give you to another human who will protect you._"

Rattle-Eater poked her head out of Roswitha's collar making several other's gasp. "_To whom must I go_?"

"_This one here_," said Roswitha, taking Father's hand, and placing it close to Rattle-Eater's head. "_He is my sire. Wrap around his hand and he will carry you to safety_."

Rattle-Eater slithered up Roswitha's arm, and around Father's hand. "_I am still in your debt, O-Famed-Strength. Call and I will answer_."

Roswitha turned to her father, who looked somewhat awed as Rattle-Eater transfered to his hand. "I know you'll probably say no, but may I keep her?"

Father grimaced a little, letting his free hand stroke Rattle-Eater's scales. "We'll discuss it with your pappa when he comes for supper on Saturday night. Run along now."

Roswitha nodded and went to her friends, who took her in their arms.

"Honestly," said Lavender, as soon as they were out of earshot of Nym and Father. "I am still a little angry you didn't tell us. I think I understand why, but we would have kept it a secret, Ros, you know us."

Roswitha nodded. "I do — but this has been a secret since before I came to Hogwarts. So, after I'd gotten you well enough to tell you a secret like that, I knew everyone would be angry with me for keeping secrets and well..." she sighed. "I'm sorry, but I'm sort of glad I did. This year, I've seen that the things we do may not be as secret as we think."

Everyone stiffened, even as they continued to climb the stairs. "What?" Ron asked in a low voice. "You think the Professors found out about the you know what?"

Roswitha shook her head. "I'm not sure on that score. But all of them knew we were doing extra defense class in the club house, Dumbledore's let on that he knows several things I never thought the professors would find out about."

Everyone was quiet for a little while until they reached the landing with Benvegnuda's portrait.

"Listen," said Fay, nibbling her lip. "I'm still not sure WHY this had to be kept a secret at all. You can talk to snakes — it's not as if that means you... I don't know, are evil incarnate."

Roswitha shrugged. "It's less to do with the fact that I can talk to snakes and more to do with who ELSE can talk to snakes."

"Who else is there?" Fay asked.

"Salazar Slytherin," said Roswitha plainly. "And the most vocal of his descendants in the last century was Lord Voldemort. The password is Nundu."

Roswitha explained over the course of the night what her parents had been afraid of this whole time. "It's pretty well known that my cousin Bellatrix, may she rot in Azkaban for all she's done," said Roswitha, pausing a brief moment so Neville could spit into the fireplace at the sound of Bellatrix's name, "was infatuated with You-Know-Who."

"Infatuated with him like..." Parvati grimaced as she asked the question and couldn't make herself finish.

"Infatuated in the way she should have been with her husband," said Roswitha. It was the way Andromeda had explained it when they sat her and Draco down in the spring before they got their Hogwarts letter. Andromeda, Pappa, and Narcissa told them every public, dirty secret from the time of the war, anything anyone could hold against the family, anyone to avoid (well, almost everything — they hadn't explained what Bellatrix had done to the Longbottoms for instance — and Roswitha did still ferret secrets out of them occasionally). "There's going to be talk now," Roswitha continued, "and questions about who my parents really are."

"But you know who your parents are," said Ron, sadly, as he furrowed his eyebrows and frowned.

"I do know," said Roswitha, nodding. "Pappa and I knew it from the moment we met — our magic recognized one another in the sort of way you only can with a parent and child. But I speak parseltongue, and I look like Bellatrix Lestrange, and—"

Neville got to his feet. "You look NOTHING like her, and you ARE NOTHING like her. I'll... I'll hex anyone who says otherwise."

Sophie took Neville's hand and pulled him back down. "We'll ALL hex anyone who says so. How could anyone think you're anything like a dark lord?"

"I don't know," said Roswitha, shaking her head, "but that's precisely why no one is going to hex anyone unless we get hexed first. Alright?"

Just then Alexandra ducked her head into the room. "How on earth did you boys get up here?"

They had been sitting in the girl's dorm room because they had the bigger space, and they all looked at Alexandra blankly.

Alexandra just pinched the bridge of her nose. "Nevermind, Black probably asked the castle. Just, just go. It's been a long enough day as it is."

The boys all rose from their seats, giving goodnight hugs. "Safety in numbers, Captain," Dean reminded her. "Really, I know you don't like to, but don't leave the dorm without another of us."

"At your request, Quartermaster," said Roswitha, hugging him tightly.

When Ron had his hug, he said, "Walk us down, will you?"

Roswitha agreed, walking them down the girl's stair, Alexandra watching them go. "What's the matter?" Roswitha asked, as they paused at the bottom of the girls' stair as the others went on to the boys' dorm.

"I had a thought," said Ron, blithely. "The castle, last year during the... the thing. It called you the blood of its beginning, didn't it?"

Roswitha nodded.

Ron licked his lips and paused another moment before he spoke again. "Listen, I believe your dad is your dad. But I think you would say the founders were the beginning of Hogwarts, wouldn't you?"

Roswitha blanched at what he was saying. "Ron, you can't mean —"

"Look," said Ron. "I BELIEVE you, Ros, when you say your dad is your dad, I know what you mean when you say your magic knows his. I feel that too whenever I'm around Ginny or my brothers or my parents. But you command the castle the same way you do your house. It's... it's just... I'm sorry. I couldn't keep that to myself, not if it could hurt you later."

He hugged her tight, and Roswitha hugged him just as tightly.

Ron had only meant to help her, but the thought nagged at her the entire night, creating fitful rest. It nagged at her during her morning run where she outpaced, Dean, Sophie, Ron, and the whole Quidditch team. It bothered her as she dressed for breakfast, and the only thing that interrupted her bothersome train of thought was when a paper airplane hit her square in the nose and kept hitting her until Roswitha opened it up.

"Breakfast in the clubhouse today — Susan."

Roswitha showed the note to the others, who agreed that today it was probably for the best. They walked down together, just as they normally did, only today they walked with their hands on their wands and kept checking over their shoulders as they went.

The clubhouse was a little chaotic, the round table littered with breakfast trays, house elves popping in and out to bring things up. The Hufflepuffs were all there and waved them in to sit down.

"Hope you don't mind," said Susan as she buttered a scone, "but I extended the same invitation to the Slytherins and the Ravenclaws."

Roswitha nodded — out of everyone at Hogwarts, Roswitha trusted their year the most to react well to this.

"I explained to everyone you saved me," said Justin as the Gryffindors took their seats and began to fill their plates for breakfast. "And then pretty much all of Hufflepuff figured you couldn't be evil if you'd save me in the middle of this petrification business. Like if you were an heir of Slytherin or something you should want to obliterate all muggleborns or something, so saving me from a snake meant you had to be good."

Roswitha breathed a sigh of relief — two of four houses had her back at least.

The Slytherins entered, Draco slumping in the chair next to her, looking utterly exhausted. It should be noted that Ron already occupied the chair next to her.

"Why do you keep doing this?" Ron asked, utterly perplexed as Draco pushed Ron's plate away so he could rest his head on the table.

"Do you know how many people want to swear fealty to my cousin now?" asked Draco.

"Erm, twenty?"

"Fifty-nine," Draco corrected. Forehead still on the table, he turned to look at Roswitha. "Eighteen proposed marriage, but when I explained you were the head of your own house, they ceased. Expect some very odd courting gifts."

Roswitha groaned.

"You're STILL in my lap," Ron pointed out, reaching for his plate.

"You're very warm," said Draco, making no sign of moving and taking some berries from Ron's plate.

"Oi!"

"Draco, get off of Ron," Roswitha ordered, rubbing her the left part of her forehead. For whatever reason when she got a headache, she always got it there.

Draco grumbled again, but removed himself.

The Ravenclaws entered bearing stranger news still. "We found out what Travers was on about, back on the train," said Morag once they had all seated themselves and began to eat.

Daphne leaned forward eagerly. "Tell me."

"Travers and his mates had this theory about what was attacking people," said Morag, she frowned and turned to her housemates. "The rest of the house wasn't clear, but they thought it would be a basilisk or a cockatrice."

"Everyone was arguing over which one they thought was more likely," Kevin explained, "but no one came to a consensus."

Roswitha blinked and at the same time as Hermione, flew to the shelves, looking for her childhood bestiary which she knew Pappa had included in the books he had brought. Hermione plucked up a copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, while Roswitha found the bestiary and they both began paging through.

"A basilisk," Hermione declared first, "is considered the king of snakes."

"That's why they were attacking Slytherins," said Theo Nott as he thumped the table. "They thought one of us was releasing a basilisk on the school."

"But that still doesn't make sense," said Su, shaking her head. "A basilisk's gaze is lethal. Filch and Kettleburn wouldn't be petrified. They should be... well, dead."

Roswitha ignored the queasy feeling that entered her stomach at the thought of someone dying, along with the queasy feeling that had likely taken over everyone else as well, leafing through her bestiary. "There's more," she said, finally coming to the basilisk's page. "This bestiary has been in my family for generations — there were notes in it saying if you do not see a basilisk stare directly, you can live but you will be petrified."

"It does?" Morag asked, as she and the other Ravenclaws were on their feet and crowded around Roswitha in an instant.

"Well, it says, 'Meet the king of snakes as Perseus met Medusa — still avert its gaze if ye can, for if not ye shall be frozen as a river in winter.' But you can interpret."

Anthony frowned, squinting at the page. "What language is this in?"

"Old Norse," said Roswitha, pressing on. "There's more still — 'It is known to but a few how one may hatch the King Serpent. Among these are those Slytherins of Persia, also called Iran, who speak to the serpents as they speak to men.'"

There were the Slytherins again, implicating Roswitha. But now, at least, the attacks against the Slytherin housemates made some modicum of sense. What would people think now that they thought Roswitha was a child of You-Know-Who and the heir of Slytherin?

“Hang on,” said Megan, raising a finger. “If your ancestors were Norsemen, how did they find out about the Slytherins down in Iran? Wouldn’t it be the Slytherins of England or Scotland?’

“Well, they traded with them, of course,” said Rowitha, shrugging. “Scandinavians have traded all over Europe, Northern African, and West Asia since they’ve been building boats – and they’ve been building boats for a _long_ time.” She held up her family ring, to show them, “This is made of Damascus steel which they only made in Damascus, but my family used some to forge it into our House Seal. How would they have gotten it but through trade?”

Anthony raised his hand and then spoke without being called on, “But if they were trading all over the place, and raiding too, is it possible that a Slytherin or Slytherin relative got mixed into your family before they started to record the tree?”

Roswitha frowned. Their family tree went back nearly a thousand years, but there were other families who went back further, and could trace more. It was _possible_, certainly, but she didn’t think it likely. “If that were so, why haven’t there been other parseltongues in our family since then?” Roswitha asked, still frowning. “It is _possible_,” she reiterated aloud. “But I don’t think people will believe it. At least now we have some idea of what creature is doing this. I’ll have to show this to Professor Dumbledore when we have our lesson this morning.”

Everyone nodded at that thought, and as a final thought, Justin stood saying, “Thank you for saving me yesterday. I don’t think I said it yet, but you did save me.”

Roswitha flushed but the Hufflepuffs started cheering and clapping. “Alright!” she cried after a minute. “Alright. You’re welcome, Justin – I’d save you anytime, I promise. But let’s eat now. I have an occlumency lesson and quidditch practice today, you know.”

Everyone laughed and they all sat down to eat, things feeling a little more normal after that.

Dumbledore’s bushy eyebrows eyed the family bestiary quizzically. “I am afraid,” he said after a moment, “I must admit that I do not read Ancient Norse.”

Roswitha deflated – she had gone to occlumency early now that it wasn’t only her who attended only to realize she should have translated her findings.

Dumbledore smiled, kindly, and passed the book back to her. “I imagine you were going to tell me about basilisk, though, based on the drawings.”

Roswitha nodded. “Yes, sir – have they already been considered?”

“They have,” said Professor Dumbledore, nodding. “And you should know, you are not being considered as a possible suspect in all this.”

Roswitha collapsed with relief.

“Even if you are a relative of Salazar Slytherin, or any Slytherin,” said Professor Dumbledore, beginning to lecture as he settled back into his chair, “it is doubtful to me that you are more than indirectly related to Voldemort. I am one of the few people left to say that I knew him personally for much of his life, and you, my dear could have inherited very little from him indeed.”

“Do you think a person’s nature is written into them, sir?” Roswitha asked, as she cocked her head to one side.

Dumbledore hummed as he considered the question. “I think,” he said after a long moment, “that people are certainly more likely to have certain natures if their parents or other relations may have also had them. That does not mean, however, they need to retain those natures. People _can_ change, dear girl. They do not always, but they have the propensity for it, if they ask for help. They need not give into the darkness of them. Now, there are certain things about people which may not change – if someone is born unable to walk, for instance, or has an experience whereby they may never walk again, that is different. In that case, I would not encourage them to take the stairs as some sort of motivation to be better, but make for them an elevator. I want to be clear to you that I do see a difference between two such things.”

“I think I understand, sir,” said Roswitha, nodding. She turned as she heard the gargoyle move aside and the others coming up the stairs. “Thank you for your advice, sir.”

“And thank you for yours,” said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling merrily. “You might show your bestiary to Dr. Scamander, for she will no doubt find it quite interesting, once translated. Welcome, students,” said Professor Dumbledore to the rest of the small occlumency class, composed mostly of students fourth year and above. He rose from his seat and joined them in a circle of arm chairs with attached half desks. “Shall we begin with questions today?”

Before she translated anything, Roswitha had to survive a supper with her poor Pappa, who was still quite worked up over the dueling club incident (why had all of the incidents of this year surrounded Lockhart, Roswitha wondered). Roswitha, who had mostly calmed down from the incident now found herself worked up again, too, and Father kept up mostly by way of resting his head in his hand before he finally gave both of them a calming draught. After that they talked about everything as rationally as they could.

“I understand why you did it,” said Pappa to her as they rested together on the sofa in Father’s apartments. “And you did the right thing, trying to get an adult to help you, so I do not find you at fault, my darling heart. It’s just… things will change for you now. And I wish that didn’t have to happen.”

It was decided, however, that Rattle-Eater was to occupy a terrarium in Father’s quarters as he had grown quite fond of the little snake.

Things did change. It took a little time for the Slytherins to pluck up the courage, but thanks to the new seating arrangements in the great hall, some managed it as early as the first week of February.

A seventh year boy gallantly bowed to her, saying, “I am at my lady’s service.”

“Be kind to others,” said Roswitha firmly. “_All_ others – kindness is the greatest service you could give me.”

He frowned and walked away from her without saying anything else. It bought her a little more time, but people started slipping her notes about The Dark Lord’s mission and aims. Roswitha would write notes in return, sending them back with the paper airplane charm, saying the dark lord’s mission had been misguided by fear and hatred. If they wished to be exemplars of high society, their mission should be free of hate above all and as free of fear if they could manage. Admittedly, she received some help with the philosophy of her ideas from her Father or Dr. Scamender (when Roswitha managed to speak to her). A few people continued to write back in secret – but some just watched her from a far.

Her first courting gift and note, which came on St. Valentine’s day, she returned on the grounds that she was far too young to court, ask again when she was at _least_ fourteen and please spread the word, and thank you for your interest. Roswitha remained in the dorm the rest of the day, grateful it was Sunday and she didn’t have to think up a reason to skive off classes.

February, love letters and promises of fealty aside, turned into a quiet month. Roswitha tried to get a moment alone with Dr. Scamander but never quite managed. She continued to attend classes, and gave lessons in defense against the dark arts to her friends. The only thing that gave her butterflies in her stomach was when the aurors would come to these lessons – and once they learned when they were, it seemed there was always one or two of them present for her lessons. Roswitha heard through the rumor mill that they showed up to the other years’ extra lessons as well, so she at least didn’t feel singled out, but it still made her nervous to teach a topic in front of masters of such a trade.

As for the bestiary and Dr. Scamander, Roswitha finally managed to catch her in the first week of March – it was then that Roswitha realized why it had been so difficult to find Dr. Scamander all this time.

Seeing that she would not simply run into Dr. Scamander, Roswitha skipped out on clubhouse time with her friends on a Wednesday and waited for the seventh year double period of Care of Magical creatures to end. She watched for a little while, but upon realizing she had come in half way through, Roswitha used the time to do her History of Magic homework, which she had first hour on Wednesdays. After the class wrapped, Roswitha felt a knock against her boot, and found Dr. Scamander standing over her. “Please tell me you didn’t skive off your classes to be here?”

Roswitha shook her head. “No, madam – I had history first hour, then came here. Normally I do homework or things with my friends during this free period, but I really wanted to talk to you and haven’t seen you around since we went to the store room that day.”

“Ah,” Dr. Scamander smiled at her, eyes averted, as they often were. “Well, up you get. Questions about creatures, is it?”

Roswitha pulled the bestiary and passed it over, changing it out for essays and things Dr. Scamander had had in her arms so she could page through it.

Dr. Scamander fairly lit up as she worked her way through several pages. “Can’t read a word,” she remarked, with a bright smile, looking up. “But the illuminations and illustrations are fascinating. Where did you get this? Let’s walk and talk, lunch will be starting soon.”

“It’s been in my family for ages,” said Roswitha, smiling, as they began walking toward the castle. “I showed the passage on Basilisks to Professor Dumbledore, and he thought you might like to see it. I’ve translated a few of the passages, but haven’t managed to get to many.” She _did_ have a bit of a full plate at the moment.

Dr. Scamander nodded profusely. “Understandable, your studies and your health come first. Here, trade with me again.” They stopped for a moment to swap back and situate everything in their respective bags. “When you do have more translated, I would greatly enjoy reading it if you don’t mind.”

Roswitha opened her mouth as they came into the entry hall to say that she wouldn’t mind in the least when someone interrupted her.

“Oh, Newton! I’m glad I caught you!” Lockhart jauntily jogged up to the pair of them.

Dr. Scamander gave a great sigh. “Professor Lockhart, I’ve explained many times – my title is ‘Dr.’ on account of my advanced degree from Oxford. It is meant to be paired with my surname, which is in fact still Scamander, not Graves.”

Lockhart smiled his famous, award winning smile at her. “But surely, we are colleagues so –”

Dr. Scamander’s face narrowed to a kind of fury Roswitha had never seen before on the kind woman’s face, as she turned a brighter shade of red than her hair and began to speak without pausing for breath. “Colleagues? Mr. Lockhart, we are nothing of the kind. I am a scientist with many years expertise in a field I pioneer. I have saved countless lives, beast and human alike, through two wars and even more conflicts. I have learned things said to be unlearnable, befriended those said to be unfriendable, and conquered adversities which would make another pale and faint with unease. You are a writer, with some talent of words, but little recourse for research that could and is being done by persons half your age or less, which will surely lead to your downfall. To say that the two of us are on the same level as to be colleagues is an insult to the word, much less to myself.”

Lord Theseus had miraculously appeared at Dr. Scamander, and taken her by the elbow. “Ne -Sister,” he said, placing a special care not to call her by her name, “I understand you are angry, but perhaps we should move to out of the students’ hearing hmm?”

At his suggestion, Roswitha looked around and found that those coming through the entry hall had stopped to stare at Dr. Scamander’s fury which could not longer be contained. Roswitha hadn’t noticed at first – she had been too in awe of the woman before her.

Dr. Scamander, now trying to catch her breath, leaned on her older brother a little, and nodded to him, giving him permission to lead her away.

Lockhart, who looked to be opening his mouth to rebut, also noticed the students, and flushed brightly. He began to look for a way out of the situation, which might have prompted Roswitha to laugh except for two things. The first being that it would have been cruel to laugh at Lockhart just now, for even if he was a dunce, he had already been thoroughly humiliated.

The second was that there came a great roar, a sound of frustration and anguish that made Roswitha drop to her knees clutching her ears. 

“Roswitha?” suddenly Dr. Scamander was back at her side, brushing Roswitha’s hair back from her face and squeezing her shoulders gently. “Roswitha, dear, what’s the matter?”

“You didn’t hear it?” Roswitha asked, surprised her own voice was so small.

“Didn’t hear what?” Dr. Scamander asked.

“The roar!” said Roswitha. “it was so loud!”

“No,” said Dr. Scamander, shaking her head. “I didn’t hear anything.” Dr. Scamander, gently as she could, pulled Roswitha to her feet. “Up you come, we’ll get you to Madam Pomfrey, and she’ll have a look –”

A scream cut Dr. Scamander off, which was something evidently everyone heard for everyone turned their heads toward that direction. The aurors who were standing outside the Great Hall as lunch began, ran toward it, ordering the students aside as they went.

“Go, Theo,” Dr. Scamaner commanded Lord Theseus who still stood nearby. “I can get her to the Hospital wing on my own.”

Lord Theseus nodded to her before he took off in the direction from which the scream had come.

Dr. Scamander walked with Roswitha to Madam Pomfrey, taking her by the hand and leading her on the way until they reached the hospital wing. Roswitha looked behind her as they went, at first, to see if she could spot what commotion caused the scream and what preceded it. When she looked ahead again, Dr. Scamander was helping lift her onto a hospital bed and Madam Pomfrey had already begun casting the diagnostic charms on her.

“Was it the same voice or a different voice?” Madam Pomfrey asked.

Roswitha had to consider the query for a moment, kicking her feet as they hung over the edge of the bed. “I’m not sure – just now all I heard was a sort of roar. Last time there were actual words, but both were quite loud.”

Madam Pomfrey frowned as she examined the results of her scan. “Everything seems normal for you, Miss Black, nothing out of the ordinary – even your magical reserves show at full strength.”

“So, that would mean Roswitha heard an actual roar no one else could?” Dr. Scamander asked with a frown.

“It seems so,” said Madam Pomfrey with a little harrumph. “What it could be, I can’t fathom. At this juncture, I would recommend you discourse with the headmaster – if it’s not an ailment of the mind or body, I cannot heal you. Lunch, first, before you go to the headmaster! No doubt he will be dealing with business at present.”

Roswitha did her best not to scowl, for she did see the wisdom – if whoever had been screaming denoted an emergency, then Professor Dumbledore would be needed. Even if not, Dumbledore _was_ in the business of running the school.

“Come along then,” said Dr. Scamander, holding out her hand. “Let’s get some food in us, then we will find Albus.”

Roswitha waited until they were out of the hospital wing to say, “Erm, Dr. Scamander? I’m grateful to you that you want to come with me, but after lunch – that is during the third block – the second years hold a makeup defense class, and I’m the leader. I don’t mind missing boxing afterwards, though, if you’re able to oblige me?”

Dr. Scamander stopped for a moment and actually met her eye before she giggled a moment. “My dear girl, I can see why Albus likes you. Occlumens, leader of your peers, in the top of your class. Yes, I’ll come along, if you don’t mind me marking essays while you work.”

Roswitha didn’t mind at all, so with that version of their plan in place, they went on to the Great Hall. Roswitha found a sit with a mix of second years, and watched as Dr. Scamander only managed to drink a glass of pumpkin juice and have a nibble on a sandwich before Mr. Graves came to get her, and they walked out of the hall together, Dr. Scamander with sandwich in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite part of this chapter is when Newt goes off on Lockhart.


	8. Marijuana Cigarettes & the Plumbing

Roswitha thought the good doctor was lost to her after Scamander had rushed from the Great Hall, probably to attend important business, which was fair enough. But, as Draco was filling her in on supposedly petrified ghosts as they walked into the club house, they found Dr. Scamander sitting at the round table with Mr. Graves to her side, marking essays as she said she would be. She did give a brief pause to look up and say, “Students, you really ought not spread gossip – especially when you don’t have all the details.”

“Yes, Madam,” they murmured as they walked in and set their things aside to prepare for lessons.

It was the worst lesson Roswitha had given thus far, since everyone was quite nervous with a famed magizoologist and a retired auror in the room (even if they were marking essays and appeared to be taking a nap, respectively, though on the whole not paying attention). Roswitha called the session earlier than she normally did and decided to ask how everyone was doing on their research.

Only then did Dr. Scamander and Mr. Graves actually both look up and appear interested in the conversation.

“Does someone have all the other books on yetis taken out?” Mandy asked when they came around to her. “Or do we really only have two?”

“I have more,” said Dr. Scamander, eagerly jumping to her feet. “They’re quite the topic in Nepal, and I’ve collected the writing over time, even translating it.”

Mr. Graves muttered something like, “The children may not be able to read your chicken scratch, my love,” which Dr. Scamander ignored.

“Oh, would you please, Dr. Scamander?” Mandy asked – as well as the others who had picked _Year of the Yeti_ as their assignment. “We’re trying to get at least five other sources that dispute, erm –“

“Lockhart, yes,” said Dr. Scamander nodding. “It’s a goodly number – that’s around the point where people stop claiming coincidences and start noticing patterns. Yes – what are the others you need?”

They had plenty of sources on werewolves, vampires, and hags, but Dr. Scamander had actually spoken with such individuals, and she recommended they also do so, until Mr. Graves pointed out that their parents would actively forbid such things. Dr. Scamander pouted, but said, “Yes, well, when the situation allows, if your subject can speak for themselves, you should always speak to them. They know best about how they work and operate. What else, what else?”

As she was an expert on creatures, Dr. Scamander could offer them a wealth of information on banshees, ghouls and trolls as well. “I shall need to write my Roxane, for she’s keeping all of my books at present,” said Scamander, nodding to herself as she pulled out a date book stuffed to the brim with papers. Amazingly, when Scamander untied the ribbon binding the book nothing fell out and she was free to write herself a note.

“Erm, thank you, Madam,” said Ron, looking to all the others, then up at the clock on the wall. “Oh, is that the time, we’re due to meet for boxing just now.”

Sophie nodded along and ran out with him, others began spouting excuses to leave as well, mumbling under their breath. Roswtiha sighed and turned to Dr. Scamander, saying, “The Headmaster’s office, then?”

“You in trouble, Captain?” Dean asked, tugging on her sleeve as Roswitha went to pick up her bag.

Roswitha shrugged. “Only with myself – thanks for looking out, though, Q. See you at supper.”

Dean nodded, reminding her, “Safety in numbers.”

“Does he always call you ‘captain?’” Mr. Graves asked as they traversed their way from the club house to the Headmaster’s office.

“Almost always,” said Roswitha, shrugging. “I almost always call him Q these days, though.”

“And does he build your gadgets?” Mr. Graves asked, forming a small grin.

For the rest of their trip, Roswitha began to explain the golden age of piracy. Hermione had shared some books over the summer, as Roswitha had become particularly interested in their idea of democracy, and the local library had books on pirates as well. Mr. Graves looked a touch overwhelmed at first, but he listened the whole time, and slowly began to contemplate what she was saying.

“And here I thought we Americans were the pioneers of a modern democracy,” he said, chuckling, as they arrived at the gargoyle who guarded Dumbledore’s office.

“No, it was pirates,” said Roswitha, smiling at the gargoyle. “May we pass, please?”

The gargoyle moved aside, and both adults startled as it did.

“Fascinating,” said Newt watching him go. “You didn’t need a password, even.”

“Oh, I never have.” Roswitha shrugged off their awe and began to climb the stairs.

“My dear, does everything fall into line for you?” Newt asked, following her.

Roswitha thought about it for a moment and paused at the top landing before knocking on the door to the office. “Buildings frequently do – people less so.” She raised up a hand to knock.

“Enter in, Roswitha!” Dumbledore called before she had the chance to knock.

When she did, Roswitha tilted her head examining him. “Did you hear us talking?”

“Just so,” said Dumbledore. His eyes remained on his paper, though, and he did not look up at them as he spoke. “I am afraid I am stretched quite thin today, my girl, so if it can wait, I implore you to ask any questions of philosophy at our lesson Friday.”

Dr. Scamander cleared her throat. “Albus, she’s hearing voices no one else can here but which we are quite certain are actually there. I do not think it _can _wait.”

At this statement, Dumbledore looked up at her. “Was it the same as before?” he asked.

“Louder this time,” said Roswitha, “and a roar rather than words. I heard it just before whoever it was screamed this afternoon and sent all the aurors running.”

Dumbledore hummed and steepled his fingers as he thought. “Twice now, the voice has been related to an event with what we believe to be a basilisk. And you are sure it is not Hogwarts’ voice as you have heard before?”

“You can hear the voice of a _building_?” Mr. Graves asked. The question appeared to be rhetorical as he flopped in a chair and rubbed his eyes.

“No, it was not like Hogwarts voice,” said Roswitha, shaking her head. “I haven’t spoken with the castle since… October, I think. It was right after parents’ day, and I asked it if anything was wrong when I heard the first voice and it said no. Though how you can’t know that something like a basilisk is in your halls or your walls, I don’t know.”

“Ah,” said Dr. Scamander, sitting down next to Mr. Graves. “Run that back – you’ve heard this strange voice before, not so long before the basilisk appeared, a voice only can hear, and no long after – for given value of long – a petrification by the basilisk occurs.”

“Seems so,” said Roswitha, shrugging.

“The voice, then, would most likely be the basilisk, would it not?” Dr. Scamander asked, smiling. “Forgive me, Roswitha, Albus, I did not have all the information to draw a conclusion before.”

“It would seem most likely,” Dumbledore agreed with a nod. “Now then, I do have correspondence to be written to the board today, so please, I must beg your leave.”

Dr. Scamander stood, and Roswitha turned toward the door.

“A moment, please,” said Mr. Graves, raising a finger. He pointed it toward Roswitha, “Miss Black – since talking to the castle in the fall, have you spoken with it again?”

Roswitha shook her head. “I didn’t know if it would be able to identify whatever it was that was petrifying people – if it was small, like a poison, the castle might not be able to sense it or mix it up with something else.”

Mr. Graves tossed his head from side to side, considering her words. “That’s perfectly reasonable, but given that we are now reasonably sure there is a sixty foot long snake roaming the castle, might it be able to detect such a presence?”

“Ah,” said Roswitha, blinking in rapid thought. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

Mr. Graves grinned in satisfaction, but Dr. Scamander only rolled her eyes at him. “If you feel up for it, Roswitha. I imagine such things are quite taxing.”

“I imagine so as well,” said Dumbledre. He pulled his wand from up his sleeve and cast on her, the spell that showed her magic in a sort of glow. “Your magic is still a lovely, deep green, dear girl, and we shall check again when you are finished.”

Roswitha nodded to him, before she took off her school bag and set it on the floor. Taking cushion from one of the chairs, she set that down as well with herself on top of it, and crossed her legs into her favorite seated pose. Ever mindful of the adults watching her, Roswitha began a series of deep breaths, in for four counts, hold for four counts, out for four counts, until she could lengthen her breathing to seven counts each. Slowly, the feeling of the adults watching her began to fade away, and slowly, the picture of the Hogwarts lawn built up around her, heather in bloom as it was when they would first come to school.

Hogwarts, presenting as the red haired woman, appeared as well, smiling at her as always. “What would you command, o blood of my beginning?”

Roswitha thought, for a passing moment, that Hogwarts spoke like a snake. “I wanted to ask about the basilisk.”

Hogwarts held out a palm upright in front of Roswitha, shaking their head. “Do not ask, command.”

“I don’t like commanding people,” said Roswitha, shaking her head in return. “I would rather just ask – I get more done by asking.”

“Perhaps,” said Hogwarts, mouth still up turned in a smile. “But you are the blood of the beginning. You will command one day, when you can no longer ask for what you want, but must demand it. It is destiny.”

Hogwarts’ words made a flame of anger, small as it was, erupt in her stomach. But then, a goblet full of curiosity doused the flame quite summarily. “Can you see my _destiny_?” Roswitha asked.

“It has been for all those who held the great strains of the blood of the beginning,” said Hogwarts. “Great things – some kind as you are, some terrible. But always great.”

Roswitha faltered – from being called kind, from being ordered to command. She didn’t know what to do. But the idea of others being hurt by the basilisk brought her back into swift center, even as her curious mind pulled her back out. “Tell me where the basilisk is,” she said at last.

“In the Chamber,” said Hogwarts, in an even tone. “Where it has been since Salazar left it, sleeping.”

“But it’s not sleeping now,” Roswitha protested, throwing up her hands. “It’s already petrified two people! Maybe more, I don’t know.”

“Petrified, but not killed,” said Hogwarts, calm as the lake waters on a clear day. “You needn’t be afraid.”

“Well, I_ am_ afraid!” said Roswitha. “I’m afraid that people could be hurt, that _I_ could be hurt. Aren’t you afraid for the students here? For the people who love you and care for you?”

Hogwarts did not answer this question. Roswitha wondered if it would ever answer her questions again. “Tell me,” she demanded.

“Why be afraid?” Hogwarts asked, still smiling. “There is nothing to fear in the basilisk. You are the blood of the beginning, after all. You can talk to snakes. You grow weak, o my blood. Return, and we will talk again soon.”

Roswitha didn’t want to let go, but she could feel the weakness that Hogwarts said, hunger and headache beginning to gnaw at her. “Alright,” she said. “But I will be back.”

Hogwarts bowed. “I would expect nothing less from one of Salazar’s children.”

Roswitha gasped, her eyes flying open to reveal the headmaster’s office, not the landscape of her own mind. Mr. Graves knelt next to her, holding a cup of water to her lips – Roswitha took hold and drank so greedily, he had to tell her to slow down.

Dr. Scamander, meanwhile, stopped her watch and stared at it for a moment. “You were under for nearly thirty minutes, Roswitha.”

“So long?” she asked, water finished. “It felt like seconds, maybe _a_ minute at that.”

“But it was not,” said Dumbledore, casting again to make Roswitha glow. “A little pale around the edges, but not to the center. Hungry?” he asked, already calling up a house elf and ordering up a plate of sandwiches.

Roswitha nodded, letting Mr. Graves help her up and into an armchair.

“When you’re ready, you can tell us what you know,” said Mr. Graves.

Roswitha snuggled into the arm chair, empty water cup still in her hands. “I didn’t learn much – Hogwarts said the basilisk will be found in the chamber where Salazar left it.” She left out the part of being the castle’s blood of the beginning and one of Salazar’s children herself. Roswitha didn’t want to lie, necessarily. The whole thing just had yet to make sense to her. When she understood it, she would share more.

Dumbledore, meanwhile, removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh dear. I am afraid, while that does give us the location of the basilisk, it does not make things any easier.”

“It can’t mean the Chamber of Secrets, can it?” Dr. Scamander asked, taking a tray of sandwiches from the house elf as they popped back into the room, and setting them on a table near Roswitha for her to eat.

“I can ascertain no other chamber of Salazars there would be,” said Professor Dumbledore, lightly, as he put his glasses on again. “I do not think others will, either. And a basilisk certainly does fit the description of a monster, as the legend says.”

“The legend also says an Heir of Slytherin will have to release the monster,” said Dr. Scamander, her eyes flicking toward Roswitha. “And even if Roswitha is an heir of Slytherin, her whereabouts are accounted for each of the attacks. Could there be another among the students?”

Dumbledore frowned and thought.

As he did, Mr. Graves butted in. “What legend is it of which you speak?”

Dr. Scamander gave her husband a little shrug. “What, my love, you don’t know everything?”

Roswitha giggled as Dr. Scamander batted her eyelashes and Mr. Graves scowled.

The adults all looked at her as if they had suddenly remembered the child among them and wer about the make her go. “Can I stay just for the legend?” she asked. “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to.”

Dr. Scamander and Mr. Graves looked vaguely amused to bargain with a twelve-year-old girl, but Dumbledore gave her a bit of a stink eye. “You promise not to stay a moment longer?”

Roswitha nodded emphatically, swallowing down a bite of her sandwich to say, “Yes, sir, I promise.”

Dumbledore leveled an extra serious look at her for as long as he could, before breaking off again. “Very well, then. As you likely know, my girl, there were four founders of Hogwarts: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. The four of them were exceptional in magic and worked hard to found this school to teach a growing population of witches and wizards.

“However, it is said that the founders, after a time, began to disagree about the students to be taught at Hogwarts School. It is said, though we have no records of proof, that Salazar wished to be more selective in his admittance to the school – children with magical families appeared to be his preference students. The stories tell us that his preference grew to obsession, which led to quarrels between himself and the other founders, most prominently Godric Gryffindor.

“So, Salazar left the school, and when he did, legend says he sealed up a magic chamber somewhere within the school. The Chamber contained a monster only under Salazar’s control, as well as his writings and magical treatises. Thus, it came to be known as the Chamber of Secrets.”

Mr. Graves had grown a mighty frown during the story. “It sounds as if he was just several centuries too early for the Statute of Secrecy.”

“Perhaps if we managed to find the chamber, we might know for sure,” said Dumbledore, folding his hands in his lap. “Barring that, very few of the school’s original records survive – perhaps they did not think attendance rolls and founders’ papers would be important in the future. And now, I think it is time for you to go, Miss Black, and for the rest of us to call a meeting.”

Roswitha nodded and got to her feet, taking the tray of sandwiches and her school bag with her. “Have a productive meeting, then,” she said, by way of adieu.

She ran into her father outside of the Headmaster’s office. “Why are you holding a plateful of sandwiches?” he asked, frowning down at her.

“Dr. Scamander and I went to the headmaster about advice for something,” said Roswitha, offering out a watercress sandwich to him – his favorite. “I had to do some difficult magic, so Professor Dumbledore fed me in return.”

One of Father’s well groomed eyebrows raised up. “Should I ask what kind of magic or live to be surprised?”

“Out in the open I’ll only say that I had a talk with the castle and perhaps we should invite Pappa to have supper in your private quarters tonight,” said Roswitha, shaking the sandwich at him. “Anymore, and you’ll want to talk to the headmaster about it in private.”

Father took the sandwich from her, but frowned as he did. “Are you alright, child?”

Roswitha nodded. “I’m as well as I can be, but we really will want to have a family dinner tonight.”

“I will let your Pappa know,” said Father, bending down to kiss her forehead. “Off with you, now.”

Roswitha went off to Gryffindor tower, where she might find a space a little more private than the clubhouse (where the others had likely trickled back to once they realized the adults would be vacating). 

With some time to herself in the dorm, Roswitha worked on translating passages her family bestiary, as stacking them with her other finished passages when done so she would not lose track of them. She had finished all of her homework assignments at present, and since she would be seeing her pappa tonight, Roswitha began a letter to Rolf. (Roswitha mentioned translating passages already – she likely would have done this one already)

_I do not wish to be vague when writing you,_ she wrote toward the end of her letter, _but it seems I must. Not only do I not have all of the story, but what pieces I do hold are trouble for the wrong ears and eyes. Yours are not wrong – but should someone else see this, theirs might be. I hope this all makes sense, or at least that the trouble is well resolved by the time you see your parents again so you may ask them in person_.

Something soft hit the back of her head. When Roswitha turned, she found a grinning Fay had tossed her stuffed bear at Roswitha’s head. “Who’re you writing?” Fay asked. “Your dear Pappa?”

Roswitha rolled her eyes as Fay flopped down on her bed. “No, my friend Rolf that I made over the summer.”

“Is he handsome?” Fay asked, resting on her head on her hands as she lay on her belly.

“Well, his mother is Dr. Scamander, and his father is Auror Graves,” said Roswitha, humming with thought. “So, yes, I would say he’s quite handsome. He asked his mother to pass on his address at Ilvermorny so we could write to one another.”

“Think he likes you?” Fay asked. When Roswitha wrinkled her nose, Fay giggled. “Not as friends as… as more.”

Rolf was a year older than she, so probably had dating on the brain more than Roswitha did. It seemed odd to think anyone older than her, even just a year her senior, might wish to date her, as Roswitha tended to think of dating, courting and romance as nebulous things that happened at later dates. “Maybe,” she said after a moment’s thought.

“Maybe what?” asked Lavender, as she entered the room.

She was followed shortly by Sophie who made a bee line for their bathroom, likely to take a bath after having been at boxing for an hour now.

“A boy has a crush on Roswitha,” said Fay with a grin.

“Who, Neville?” Lavender asked, shrugging out of her robe to change from her school clothes into something more comfortable.

“What?” said Roswitha, Fay and Sophie at once.

Lavender laughed as she began to dig through her own closet. “Neville has a crush on you! You really haven’t noticed?”

“No!” said Roswitha, her face going hot. “What… what do I do?”

Lavender rolled her eyes. She wasn’t as old as Hermione, but she had still turned thirteen in January shortly after they came back to school. “Don’t do anything differently of course – Neville’s not like some boys. He likes you, but he likes being your friend too. I don’t think he’ll be upset if you want to date someone else, either. So, you know, just be his friend, same as you’ve always done.”

Roswitha could do that, she thought as Hermione and Parvati came into the room, talking about something to do with tea.

“By the way,” said Roswitha, now that everyone had arrived. “I have a secret, but I can’t say what it is just yet. I’m going to talk to my parents about it tonight.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You’re the _worst_,” she said, flopping against Roswitha. “You’ll tell us that you have a secret, but will never tell us what.” Hermione stood up abruptly, saying, “Wait a minute, was the secret you mentioned on the train your parseltongue?”

“It was,” said Roswitha, nodding. “So, you did find out eventually. This one, if they figure out what’s going on with the school, I think I can tell you then.”

“That could be forever!” said Sophie, peeking her head out of the bathroom as she dried her hair with a towel.

Roswitha shrugged. “Best offer – I’m having dinner with my parents tonight, so I can ask them then and see what they think.”

This seemed to appease the others, and the boys as well as Roswitha reiterated to them on the way down to supper. They insisted on walking her to the dungeons, since it wasn’t much more of a walk from the Great Hall besides. Roswitha shooed them away before they could see the precise location of Father’s apartments, as she knew he would want, before she knocked.

Pappa answered, shuffling her inside before he gave her a tight hug. “Basilisk and mythical chambers, what will happen to this school next?”

“Hopefully a competent defense instructor,” said Roswitha, burying her face into his fleece jumper.

Pappa chuckled and pulled away from her. “Well then, we’re just waiting on your father and then we can have this family meeting of yours.”

“Of ours,” Roswitha corrected.

Roswitha helped her Pappa set the table as they waited on Father to return. The meeting of Professors and board members and whoever else must have gone quite long, for Father did not join them until more than a half hour after Roswitha arrived. By then, Pappa had moved to reading a spell work journal, and Roswitha had removed Rattle-Eater from her enclosure to play and speak with her.

“Bad news, my love?” Pappa asked, as Father swooped in, his black robes billowing behind him.

“Not bad,” said Father, slumping at a dinning room chair. “Merely divisive. The board and the professors voted to close the school after the Easter holidays if the beast cannot be found by then. They only reached this decision, however, after several hours arguments over what best to do.”

Pappa frowned as he moved to rub Father’s temples. “But won’t that cause the same problems the board thought of before? Children out of school having magical accidents, no infrastructure for education?”

Father hummed, letting his eyes fall closed as he spoke. “As it happens, Madams Bones, Marchbanks and Longbottom foresaw the need to close the school at some point. Now that we know what the beast is, it is hopeful the students should miss no more than a month of school. In that time, they have worked out plans for students preparing for their NEWT or OWL exams, and given more space and resources they could relocate the population of the school for a time. The hope though, is with enough people scouring the school we’ll find the beast and either give it to Scamander or terminate it if necessary.”

Roswitha made a noise at the thought of “terminating” the basilisk. She wasn’t sure why – the animal had the whole of Hogwarts terrified they would be the one petrified next. Somehow, though, in wanting to protect everyone else, she had not considered needing to kill another being for it.

Father cracked his eyes to look at her. “No snakes at the supper table, young lady. Put Rattle-Eater away, and come sit down.”

Roswitha placed Rattle-Eater back in her enclosure, giving her several small bird eggs to feast on while the rest of the family sat down to dinner.

“Now then,” said Father as Pappa began to carve the chicken the house elves had cooked for them. “What is it you needed to speak to us about?”

“Well, I imagine that Professor Dumbledore told you we suspect that the basilisk is Slytherin’s monster from his Chamber of Secrets?” Roswitha asked, directly the question in particular to Father.

“He has,” said Father, his black eyes staring back at her intently. “What’s that anything to do with you, child, even if you can speak to snakes?”

“Well I…” Roswitha didn’t quite know how to begin. She fidgeted in her chair as they both watched as she tried to figure out her words. “Have I… have I ever explained what it feels like to be the Master of the House at Grimmauld Place?”

“I don’t believe you have,” said Pappa, as he plated up chicken and roast vegetables, laying the plate in front of her. “is that anything to do with how you can speak with the castle, if Albus’ reports are also to be believed?”

With a start, Roswitha realized that she had never told her parents that about herself either. She bit her lip so hard it nearly bled.

“Stop that now,” said Pappa, taking his seat, plateful of food in front of him. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

Roswitha did stop. “I’m sorry,” she said after another moment. “I don’t mean to keep that back – only how Menaçant and I communicate sometimes it is almost as if we are one. If I want the House to do something, it does, even if it takes a little time. When the House is pleased, it sends a warmth up my spine, when it doesn’t know or can’t procure something, the air clears. It… it can think almost – I know it chose me to wear the ring and be Master of the House, when it could have held such a thing back.

“And Hogwarts is… well, it’s the same, but it’s more.”

No one at the table touched their food.

“How so?” Father asked, leaning back in his chair and pulling out a cigarette case Roswitha had never seen before.

Pappa took the case from him before Father could retrieve a cigarette. “Later, my love. Go on, my darling heart, all we want is to understand.”

“Well, Hogwarts… can speak,” said Roswitha, stumbling to choose the right words. “Perhaps not outloud, but we have always been able to speak in the landscape of my mind – these days more clearly than ever. But it… it’s started to call me something – the blood of its beginning.” Roswitha looked down and studied the lines of her hand. “And when I asked what it meant, it said I was one of Salazar’s children.”

In an instant, Father put his head in his hands, and Pappa gasped, his eyes welling up with tears.

Roswitha had to keep from throwing herself across the table. As it was, she did race to Pappa’s arms and take tight hold of him. “You _are_ my father, I know that in my magic and in my blood. I don’t know what the castle means when it calls me Salazar’s child but I am _your_ daughter. Always. They can’t have me.”

“No they cannot,” said Pappa squeezing her tightly even as the tears flowed freely from his eyes. “They can never have you, my darling heart.”

They sat and they cried for a time, Father bringing his chair closer to them so he might also join in comfort and embrace. When, after some time, they had all calmed down to resume their normal seats, Father said, ever sensibly, “We must begin to investigate your mother, child. She has to be the key to all of this – your parseltongue, being descended from Salazar Slytherin.”

“His family came from Iran,” said Roswitha, wiping at her eyes and sniffling a little. “There was a bestiary that dates back to our time as Vikings which says so. Perhaps some of his earliest descendants went to Scandinavia, then made their way to Germany over the next centuries to begin Mama’s family?”

“_Anything_ is possible,” said Pappa with a sigh. “But without records it may be difficult – wizards keep records of every child.”

“Unless the child is a squib,” Father pointed out archly. “Then they are stricken from the rolls.”

Pappa gave him a glare for his tone, then sighed. “It’s true enough. I wish, though, we had more of your mother’s papers, my darling heart. In anycase, Father is right. This summer, we’ll go abroad looking for records. Surely, we can find something more about your mama.”

“I hope so,” said Roswitha, ashamed when her stomach grumbled.

Pappa only kissed her forehead, though. “Quite right – we’ll make these arrangements later. Let us eat and then make something merry.”

Father leaned over and kissed her as well. “And thank you for telling us child – it would have been too easy for you to keep this a secret.”

“You’ve asked me not to,” said Roswitha as she resumed her seat and nibbled on her chicken.

“Most children your age would keep secrets anyway,” said Pappa, gently.

Roswitha shrugged. “I may keep a few from you yet, but this… this is different.” If she had kept this from them, and Frigg help them it turned out to be _true_ in the worst way possible, her Pappa would have been destroyed by such a cold truth kept from him so long.

“And what secrets will you keep from us, child?” Father asked her.

Rolf’s face came into her mind at once. “Mostly ones about boys,”

Father and Pappa made an identical face of pain, one where they scrunched their faces inward and aged about twenty years in a single moment.

“Please do,” said Pappa, after a moment, when he could relax enough to speak.

When they had finished supper, her parents asked Roswitha to stay the night in Father’ apartments. She had no classes Thursday morning, so did not see the harm in the request since she would have time to go back to the dorm for anything she needed. Roswitha would be even more glad to have agreed to the arrangement later on.

Even when they retired to bed that night, all three of them stayed up. Roswitha, on the recently transfigured sofa in Father’s study, wrote out all recent events in her diary, turning over all her thoughts in her mind until they were a wound up, tangled pile of thread. She heard her parents talking in Father’s bedroom across the hall, soft murmurs the shape of which she could not make out.

Around ten thirty, a knock rang out at the door. Father meant to ignore from the tone of his grumbling, but then it rang out again and again until Father at last rose from bed and answered the door in a huff.

“Good evening, Severus,” came Dr. Scamander’s voice. “I’ve heard you are in possession of marijuana, and given that you are awake and appear to have been for some time, I would request to smoke with you.”

Mr. Graves muttered something that sounded like, “Giles fucking Corey, Newt.”

Father huffed again. “I’m only letting you in because I could use a smoke as well.” 

Roswitha closed her diary, capped her pen, and quickly pushed both under her pillow before curling up in her coverings. Not a moment too soon, Pappa opened the door to the study a little wider peering in on her. He retreated, after a moment and went out into the sitting room to join the others.

“I’m afraid it won’t be all pleasure,” said Mr. Graves, as Roswitha began to smell something burning.

“No?” Pappa asked. “Perhaps you shouldn’t share then, my love.”

“Too late,” Dr. Scamander murmured. She coughed a moment later. “My that hasn’t happened since 1952.”

“If I don’t cough you owe me supper,” said Mr. Grave.

Dr. Scamander snorted. “I’m your wife.”

“And if it’s not over an open flame you can’t cook – besides I mean at somewhere like the Ritz, or one of those French joints where you once taught a chef how to debone a frog or some nonsense – where you have to put on evening clothes and eat at least three courses.”

“Alright then,” said Dr. Scamander gently.

A pause, and then Mr. Graves gave a triumphant crow.

“I feel odd smoking with two persons old enough to be my grandparents,” Pappa remarked. “Even if they do come to bring us bad news.”

Roswitha wanted to see what they were doing, but didn’t feel quite brave enough to sneak to the door and look through. If they caught her, after all, they might start using a muffling charm. Instead, she contented herself with listening to the dialogue.

“Well, Regulus, it’s fair to say that we certainly don’t act like your grandparents in many other respects,” said Dr. Scamander. “And we’ve young Rolf – your daughter’s peer. That sort of makes us peers as well.”

There was a pause in the conversation where Roswitha began to smell smoke – not from the fire though, nor like nicotine smoke she had noticed before at train stops or when walking from place to place.

“I’m dying of suspense, Newton,” said Father at last. “What’s the business end of this relationship?”

“Your arse,” Pappa muttered, and to Roswitha’s surprise all the adults broke out giggling like Roswitha’s friends might.

“Hmm,” said Dr. Scamander. “I couldn’t sleep so I went investigating and dragged Percival with me. Something had been bothering me all day from my earlier conversation with Albus and your daughter.”

“Oh?” Pappa asked.

“Indeed,” said Dr. Scamander. “Roswitha mentioned her hearing the voice, and when it was put into context the idea that she heard it before the basilisk attacks, things made sense again – she was the only one who heard a voice that was actually there, that no one else could hear because she is the only one who can understand snakes. And the revelation of _this_ basilisk being the one from Salazar Slytherin’s Chamber of Secrets got the aurors talking on possible connections between the attacks — what’s the thing I’m thinking off, honey?”

“Victimology and modus operandi, doll face,” said Mr. Graves. “May I help myself to a whiskey?”

“If you’ll bring me one,” said Pappa.

“That was it though – what the three victims have in common and how that affects the method and manner of attack. Well, using Salazar’s basilisk would seem to suggest a blood purity motivated attack, which makes sense when considering the first victim, as Argus Filch is a squib I understand.”

“But Silvanus Kettleburn is a pureblood wizard,” said Father. He almost sounded a little nervous, like he might be fidgeting.

“Yes,” said Dr. Scamander. “And an old pureblood family out of the Celtic Cornish folk. And though Silvanus has been a career educator, he’s never made known any particular philosophy to label him a blood traitor either. Then, when you consider the attack today on the ghosts – what purpose does that serve if we are looking at a purity motivated attack?”

“It doesn’t,” said Pappa. “There’s not really a pattern between the three is there? Filch was attacked at night, Kettleburn in the early morning, and the ghosts in the near afternoon.”

Dr. Scamander spoke again, “Just so. I was thinking the same thing, that there had to be some commonality to the attack, aside from the petrification itself. The petrification is another matter all together. After all, if you have a basilisk, why not kill another by its lethal stare, or failing knowledge of a basilisk physiology have them eat your human victims? But in any case, the lack of common thread bothered me. So, unable to sleep I went to visit the crime scenes once again. It took a few loops, but when we were looking at where Silvanus was attacked again, I finally noticed it.”

“And here, she puffs, for the suspense,” said Mr. Graves.

“I’m high enough not to care,” Pappa retorted.

“Pipes,” said Dr. Scamander at last.

“Beg pardon?” said Father. “All I have are cigarettes I’m afraid.”

“Not you or the marijuana, dear boy,” she said, giggling. “The three petrification attacks all involve the plumbing.”

“What the fuck?” Pappa asked.

“Indeed,” said Dr. Scamander. “Let me have some of your whiskey, honey, my mouth’s dry.” When she’d had a sip, she continued. “It was something else Roswitha said that connected it for me. Something about how do you not know there’s a basilisk in your halls or your walls. And what’s in the walls? The pipes, that’s what. Argus Filch was found just outside a bathroom, Silvanus near a large pipe that lets off into the lake.”

“The ghosts were found by a fountain in one of the courtyards,” said Father. “I’m putting this out – we’ve had enough. The fountain certainly has pipes, but slender ones.”

“There’s a run off drain nearby,” said Graves. “Auror Tonks nearly broke her leg stepping in it early since the cover had been ripped off.”

“Loki’s cunt,” Pappa swore. “I never thought I’d say it, but I’m glad they’re closing the school at the break. How the fuck are the children to stay away from the _plumbing?_ We never had to worry about something like this when we were in school.”

“We most certainly did not,” said Father.

Then Roswitha heard footsteps. She had not brought her diary back out, but she curled up in her covers again, eyes closed gently so it wouldn’t look like she was faking. The door opened, and Roswitha could feel light on her face as Father looked in at her. He harrumphed, leaning forward to kiss her hair before he disappeared, this time closing the door completely behind him. Roswitha waited until she was certain he had gone back out to the living room and took out her diary and wrote down what they had said so she wouldn’t forget any details. She wouldn’t use it to go looking for the basilisk or the chamber, and when she told her friends tomorrow about being an heir of Slytherin the plumbing would certainly get a mention.

Roswitha woke the next morning and found Dr. Scamander and Mr. Graves cuddling together on the sofa in the sitting room. She did something highly ill-advised by anyone’s standards and crept off to the Gryffindor dorm alone. Roswitha figured even if she woke anyone, they wouldn’t have been able to take her – Pappa and Father were both Slytherins, Dr. Scamander a Hufflepuff and Mr. Graves had gone to Ilvermorny which meant known of them knew where the dorm was and therefore were not allowed to know. The adults likely would have come to that conclusion as well, only after a half hour or more of debate.

She left them a note all the same.

Sophie was not in bed when Roswitha crept inside the dorm room, which meant she had missed everyone going out for a run. Roswitha went to have a quick bath, since she now felt self conscious about the smell of smoke on her, like it had been her smoking the marijuana cigarette. When she had bathed, Roswitha took the bestiary and the translations she was doing down in the common room to wait for the others to return from the morning run.

She was half way through the entry on the Achlis when the others returned, and Dean only had to take a look at her serious face to say, “I’ll get the others to come down, then.”

“Have a bath first, please,” said Roswitha, going back to translations.

The boys were down in fifteen minutes, and Roswitha led them up to the second years’ girl dorms quietly (the stairs wouldn’t have made a slide for them anyway, no matter what Alexandria said or what they did to other boys, but it was more so the four wouldn’t be caught wandering around alone). Fay waited at the door, and after a quick check for clothes, they all shuffled in.

“Well fuck,” said Seamus, when she had explained all (all except the marijuana of course).

The others were just as incensed. “How the blue hell are we supposed to stay away from plumbing?” Fay asked, huffing and puffing.

“Bathrooms should be fine, as long as they don’t have a large drain,” said Hermione, shaking her head. “Like the storm drain in the court yard – it’s massive, of course the basilisk would be able to get through. And we’ll just have to start carrying mirrors, that’s all. All us girls have one, so boys don’t go anywhere without one of us from now on.”

“Or me,” said Roswitha, licking her lips. “If I am an heir of Slytherin the basilisk should listen to me.”

Sophie shook her head. “How though? You’re nothing like what Salazar Slytherin was supposed to be. And I know we like the theory about your Mum being the one, but she would have had to be fairly far down the family tree to be a redhead, don’t you think? None of the Slytherins I’ve seen had red hair.”

Everyone turned to blink at her, which made Sophie flush. “I mean, they still have part of the family living in Iran, didn’t you know? They’re a wealthy family, so we’re not really on the same level, but there are portraits and things, photographs even. In any case, none of them are redheads.”

“Hard to think of the Slytherin family still being alive in name,” said Ron wrinkling his nose. “I mean, there’s been descendants of the founders, of course, but not under their names.”

“Well, they don’t go by Slytherin in Arabic if that’s any consolation,” said Sophie, shrugging.

Roswitha tucked away the knowledge of an existing family for a later date. “Look, this isn’t announced yet, but they’re going to close the school at Easter to try to find the basilisk and get it out of the castle. The idea about hand mirrors is a good one, and we’ll look out for others too. We just have to be careful until Easter. We’ve done more with less – so we can do this too.”

It turned out, they didn’t need to worry about being hypervigilant – at breakfast, Dumbledore announced that the would be escorted between classes and activities by professors or aurors from now until Eastertide, when they would close the school for a short time while they rooted out the basilisk. When he made the announcements there were a few protests, but so few that Roswitha wondered if everyone was tired of being on high alert as well.

Still, they got the word out that hand mirrors were a wise accessory to have on ones person at any time, and Roswitha saw people carrying them almost everywhere, even in the company of their Professors. They had four weeks until Easter – they all hoped that nothing would go wrong until then.

They hoped, sadly, in vain.


	9. Departure

Roswitha woke with a feeling of dread in her stomach the Wednesday before Easter.

“Maybe it’s nerves,” Neville suggested. “We’ve all been on edge for weeks, now, Vee, you most of all.”

“Maybe,” said Roswitha, not wanting to dismiss Neville so easily. “It feels like it could be more than that though.”

Sadly, the feeling in the pit of her stomach didn’t give her a timeline, just a knot. She didn’t eat that morning, took no notes in history of magic, and could not eat at lunch, either for the knot in her would not subsist. Roswitha went to the head table and told her father about it.

Father frowned a little. “Child, I highly sympathize with your feelings, but you have felt an enormous amount of pressure lately. Even if it is not stress,” he continued before she could object, “unfortunately, there is not much anyone of us can do without much more specific information.”

Roswitha felt like swearing, but frustrated though she was, she had to admit that Father was right. So, she went to where Nym was having lunch with the other auror trainees and asked her to come to second defense today. “What’s wrong?” Nym asked with a frown.

“Can’t put my finger on it,” said Roswitha, shrugging, “but something is. Come with today?”

Nym nodded, promising to bring along some of the other aurors as well. As it was Dr. Scamander who offered to escort the second years to their second defense session, Mr. Graves was there as well, and he raised both his eyebrows at the sight of Roswitha’s back up.

The knot in her stomach had been so bad that when Roswitha got up to speak in front of her peers and several aurors, she forgot her lesson plans entirely. “Happy memories,” she said at last.

“What about them?” Vincent Crabbe called looking a little miserable. Vincent was not unique in this way – everyone looked a little miserable at present.

“I’m not sure when we’ll get to see each other again,” said Roswitha, pursing her lips. “So, I thought I would announce it now. I thought next year we could begin learning the patronus charm.” At the mention of an advanced skill, everyone perked up slightly. “But the foremost component of the patronus is the caster’s grip on a happy memory. Not just the feeling you get when you have a nice day or something, but pure joy. So, your assignment, should you choose to accept it, is to list all your happiest memories. Really think about them to see which ones bring you joy and which ones just passed over quickly.”

Several Ravenclaws raised their hands, and Roswitha called on Anthony. “Is that all?” he asked. “Just happy memories>”

That had been all Roswitha was going to suggest, and her stomach was beginning to sink out from underneath her, but now that he pointed it out, it did seem a little simple. “Well, if you would like a more advanced assignment, you can always write about what the patronus charm can be used for and you can begin to meditate for, oh, five minutes a day to start.”

Draco wrinkled his nose. “How long do you meditate every day?”

She almost felt like she could vomit, she was so nervous. “An hour,” Roswitha replied. “But I’ve been meditating for years. Start with five minutes at a time, then work your way up. Meditation helps with clarity and you need to be really clear on your focus when casting spells like the patronus.”

Roswitha swallowed hard – she could honestly use some meditation right now, it would help her clear her mind. But everyone was still looking at her, having scribbled down the assignment, or watched their friend scribble it down so they could copy it later, and waiting for what they would be working on that day. “Sorry,” she said at last. “I need a moment.” Then, Roswitha turned on her heel and walked out of the clubhouse and down the corridor.

She let her forehead rest against the stone wall, its cold like a balm to a feverish mind. Was she hot? Had she been sweating this whole time? Roswitha pulled off her cardigan and found more relief. She closed her eyes and just rested there for a moment, clearing her mind and focusing on the problem in front of her. Something was wrong, wrong enough it felt like every pore on Roswitha’s body was screaming WRONG in all capital letters. The question, then, became what not if.

“Show me,” she whispered, lips moving against the stone and mortar. “Show me, Hogwarts.”

The image that poured into her mind appeared as if she were floating above the floors and if there were no roof. Then an invisible hand took a paint brush and mapped out the route for her, showing Roswitha exactly where she needed to be.

Someone brushed her shoulder.

Roswitha’s eyes flew open and she stood up straight to see Dean standing there. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” said Dean, hand still on her shoulder. “Captain, are you okay?”

“I think so,” said Roswitha, nodding, feeling jittery and needing to move. “But something is wrong, Q. Go back in the club house and lock the doors. Don’t unlock them again until I give the word.”

Dean nodded, taking in every word in the moment. “And what’s the word, Captain?”

“Phoenix,” said Roswitha.

They went in the same direction, for back toward the club house was part of the route the castle had mapped out for her. Roswitha walked quickly passed, not so fast that the aurors who came running out after Dean had likely made an announcement of locking them in would miss her, but fast enough that they weren’t able to shove her in again before Dean closed the doors.

Giving no one any time to argue, Roswitha drew her wand and jerked her head. “Follow me,” she said, and began to run.

“Where are we going?” Dr. Scamander called as she began to run behind Roswitha.

“We’ll know when we get there,” said Roswitha, focusing on the pounding of her feet and the pace of her breath. “Other than that, I can't say for certain.”

Roswitha waited for nothing and no one – not even when Nym, Graves and Scamander stopped to cast their patroni to send messages in the castle. It was a good thing she did not, as several corridors after, Roswitha was the first to hear the scream. She ran faster at that point – not that it mattered much since the aurors had struggled so much to keep up, they were no where in sight of her.

Roswitha had known the basilisk would be large – anything she had read on them since realizing the beast they faced _was_ a basilisk had said so. They grew to enormous lengths and circumferences, said her bestiary, and it is supposed that they never stop growing. They had no natural predators either. Left unchecked, a basilisk will grow and live forever.

This basilisk was a thousand years old, or more. Its massive body nearly filled the corridor and stretched over fifty feet in length. Roswitha could see, in its coils, several young Ravenclaws trapped by it, weeping and covering their eyes.

“_Hey!” _she cried outin parseltongue.

The massive head turned toward her, and Roswitha clamped her eyes shut as well. “Keep your eyes closed,” she said, partly as a reminder to herself, partly to any incoming aurors and the girls who were still weeping.

“_Ssppeaker,” _said the basilisk, its voice distorted, almost like Roswitha was hearing it under water.

“_Leave them be!_” Roswitha hissed. “_Leave us all be!”_

Rather than leaving though, the basilisk began to coil around her. Roswitha could feel the great lengths wrap and wrap until the massive head was right by her ear breathing great breaths in and out. Roswitha took deep breaths in and out as she waited and waited for it to bite her or squeeze the life out of her or …

And then the basilisk spoke, so soft, so quiet and something that shook Roswitha more than her fear ever could.

She replied, and at last the basilisk uncoiled and slithered away.

When she was sure it had gone, Roswitha opened her eyes. She saw the whole interaction had taken no more than a few minutes, for she could now hear the aurors approaching, and the crying Ravenclaws still sat where they had been when she first arrived. Roswitha made her way over to them, stumbling as she went. “It’s alright,” she said. “It’s gone now.”

“But Penelope!” one of the first years protested, tears streaking down her face. “And Looney too!”

Roswitha blinked and saw for the first time that among the Ravenclaws two looked to be frozen stiff – Penelope Clearwater and Luna Lovegood. She thought she might be sick, but then she remembered the first years and the aurors coming and took a deep breath to try and hold it together a little longer. She took Penelope’s and Luna’s pulses, which were faint but present, and right when she announced to the first years that the other two were alive the aurors managed to arrive.

Nymphadora yanked her away by the arm, pulling her into the next corridor as the aurors took over the scene. “What the blue hell were you thinking?” Nym asked, her eyes lit with furry.

“Something was wrong, I couldn’t just—“

“Yes you could! You’re a child, Roswitha! A child! You could have died!!” Nym took her by the arms and shook her as she spoke. “Do you not understand that you could have died?!” She was so angry, it took Roswitha a few moments to realize that Nym was also crying.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her own tears beginning to fall, followed by closely something she could not contain. “It spoke to me.”

“What?” Nym asked simply staring at her.

“The basilisk,” Roswitha said. “It spoke to me.”

There was a pause between them wherein Nym looked her up and down and took in what Roswitha was saying. “What... what did it say?”

“It said, ‘help me,’” Roswitha replied, tears still streaking down her face.

Nym stared a moment longer as her tears over took her, then she pulled Roswitha in for a hug. Father found them like that a few minutes later, when he arrived, having run all the way from the dungeons, and he, too, embraced and scolded her. Roswitha repeated the basilisk's words for the other auros who asked, she cried over Penelope and Luna, and was at last escorted by Professor McGonagall with to fetch the other second years she had left barricaded in the club house.

Professor McGonagall delivered the solemn news, remaining stalwart to shuffle everyone along back to their dorms before they became overwrought with emotion. She only partially succeeded, as it really seemed to hit the other Ravenclaws as they were climbing the steps to the tower and many of them started crying as well.

Roswitha felt cold, just cold, as she walked with her housemates back to their house. All the heat which had charged her up before she left to go fight the basilisk had seeped from her when she heard its plea. Ron must have seen her shiver, for he threw an arm around her and held her close.

It was as if the events of October, the first petrification, played all over again, only this time worse, because instead of Mr. Filch it was sweet Luna petrified and kind Penelope. People they liked and cared about would be unable to move, still thinking and feeling, for months while the mandrakes matured. Roswitha felt even worse about it because she was no solace to anyone. She couldn’t be – not when she ached with keeping a secret so close to her chest.

For when the basilisk had said, “_Help me_,” in its broken tones, all Roswitha could say was, “_Go, wait for me in the Chamber_.”

Supper was held in the common rooms that evening, and students were ordered to have their thinks ready to ship home. Thursday classes were canceled in the face of such tragic petrification, and in order to consider the safety of the other students they would be leaving for home ahead of schedule.

No one ate very much, and everyone moved sort of slowly, as if walking through syrup. Periodically, as they were packing that night, they would just hear someone break down in tears.

Roswitha could feel the weight of her friends’ unspoken request of what to do next on her as they made ready to leave. When she had packed all her things, she at last sat on her bed and admitted, “I don’t know what to do.”

Hermione sat next to her and hugged her tight. “Seamus can get to a floo,” said Hermione. “And the rest of us can get to your house easily enough. Once we’ve gotten home and we’ve had a chance to rest, we’ll figure it out.”

Lavender swallowed hard, but then said, “Any seconds?”

Fay raised her hand resolutely.

“All in favor?” Lavender asked.

The six of them raised their hands slowly, but together.

“Motion passes,” said Lavender.

“What about the boys?” said Parvati, as she began to cry again.

Sophie snorted as she was crying too. “We out number them – motion still carries.”

In spite of everything it did get a little laugh out of them.

The next morning, Professor McGonagall instructed all of them to make absolutely certain they had everything packed and ready to go, as their belongings would be transported to the train while they were eating. Roswitha did one more check on her trunk, and made sure she had some essentials in her satchel (like her cloak and her diary) just in case.

Aurors took them in waves down to the Great Hall. Roswitha completed the walk while staring off into space, until someone nudged her and she found her father standing over her, Rattle-Eater curled around his hand. “I didn’t want her to be forgotten,” he said. “Mind her well, and see that she doesn’t eat anyone else’s pet on the train.”

“_Hello Speaker_,” said Rattle-Eater as she slithered off of Father’s hand and onto Roswitha’s arm. “_You smell of other snakes_.”

“_I had a basilisk rub up against me yesterday,_” said Roswitha, running a finger down the back of Rattle-Eater’s scales. “_Up my sleeve now, and curl around my arm. Otherwise people might get frightened._”

Everyone felt pretty miserable, but the girls communicated their plans to the boys, about meeting at Roswitha’s house to practice magic and stay in touch with one another. Roswitha realized about half way through breakfast, though, that it was just the Pride eating with her today and there was no one to tell the other houses about their plan. She looked around and saw the others had a similar idea.

“I’ll be back,” she said, before hopping over to the Hufflepuff table.

“Morning,” said the Hufflepuff second years, though glumly as Roswitha sat down.

“Morning,” said Roswitha. She pulled out a loose sheet of parchment and wrote down her address, passing it to Susan. “We’re thinking of meeting up at mine to practice things while school’s out of session. Can you help coordinate?”

Susan nodded, perking up a little, “Of course! We could probably meet at mine too, goodness knows we have enough space.”

The offers were much the same at the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables – Daphne and Pansy volunteered to organize their group, and Morag took over for everyone at the Ravenclaw table (none of them looked like they had slept much if at all, and their eyes were red rimmed). Anthony, in a surprise move, gave her a hug before she moved back toward the table where the Gryffindors sat. “You’re a good friend, Roswitha,” he said. “Thank you for doing what you could for Penelope and Luna.”

When he said that, Roswitha needed a few more moments in the hug before she could pull away, lest she start blubbering in the Great Hall. “Thanks Ant,” she managed at last. “I hope you have a good Passover.”

He grinned a little despite the circumstance. “Thanks! Hardly anyone ever remembers.”

Roswitha went to make her way back to the Gryffindor table but did not manage to get there before the professors called for them to make their way down to the train station guarded by the aurors. She became swept up with the crowd exiting the great hall, but thought nothing of it at first. They would all arrive at the station more or less together, and she could reunite with some friends there. Aurors flanked the sides of the mass of students as they filed into the entry hall. Roswitha couldn’t see Mr. Graves or Nym or Auror Shacklebolt, but instead the one closest to her was someone she didn’t know called Dawlish. That he didn’t know her is probably why he allowed what happened next.

Roswitha groaned when she saw Lockhart approaching her, or she tried to, but she found herself silenced.

“Hold there,” said Lockhart as he approached. “I need to take Miss Black to Professor Snape – he’s her stepfather, and she’ll be leaving with him, not by the train."

Dawlish shook his head and tsk’ed at Roswitha. “You might have said something, Miss Black. Alright, off you go then.”

Professor Lockhart took her by the arm – unfortunately not the arm where Rattle-Eater lay, or the snake might have known something was wrong and attacked him. Roswitha, though she couldn’t shout, could still punch, and moved to do so with her free hand, but Lockhart was prepared for her, muttering the spell, "_Incarcerous_," which bound her hands behind her back. 

"You thought you could cast doubt on me," he muttered again, as they were far enough away from the crowd that he could comfortably speak. "You with your fact checks and extra defense classes. You're nothing but a naughty little school girl! But after I solve the mystery of the Chamber of Secrets, no one will take your notes, or anything you say seriously, little girl." 

He dragged her along — Roswitha tried to act as dead weight most of the time, but Lockhart was surprisingly strong. When he deemed them fair enough away, he stopped and cast an _incarcerous_ on her legs as well, leaning her up against the wall. "Now then," Lockhart said as he smoothed down his hair and straightened his robes. "I'm going to remove the silencing charm on you and you're going to tell me where the Chamber of Secrets is. You will not scream or shout, you are only going to answer my question and come along quietly — otherwise Regulus is going to have a poisoning accident with something straight from Severus' stores, am I understood?"

Roswitha felt a bubble of panic rise up in her as he canceled the silencing charm. "They never told me where it was," she said.

Lockhart did something which wholly surprised her and slapped Roswitha across the face. "I know you know where it is," he said, so viciously spit flew from his mouth and landed on her face. "You have one minute to tell me, or I will drop you down a hole while I kill your parents."

Roswitha wanted to cry — no one had ever treated her this way. Certainly, not everyone was nice, but everyone had always acted with decorum and respect toward her. _Focus_, she told herself. She needed to remember this clearly for when the aurors caught Lockhart. _Deep breath_. She breathed deeply and thought about the events so far, and what she could possibly tell him to stall for time. Think, think, where had Dr. Scamander said the three crime scenes were?

“Tick tock,” said Lockhart, grabbing her roughly.

“The girl’s bathroom,” Roswitha said, at last. “The one on the second floor, where Mr. Filch was first attacked.”

Lockhart looked her in the eye as if trying to ascertain a lie. Thanks to her year of occlumency training, Roswitha stared back unblinking.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s the only place it could be.”

The drain pipe and the courtyard Dr. Scamander had mentioned would be much too public for Lockhart to actually take her there. Roswitha realized that if she had said one of them, he would have knocked her out and dropped her down that hole he had mentioned, whether it was literal or metaphorical. Dangerous as it would be, she needed room to trap _him_ and get away to tell someone what she had done. It would be more dangerous, Roswitha thought, to leave him free and try to make a break for it.

Lockhart left her feet bound, but there was enough rope between them that she could walk slow, shuffling steps. As the walked, Lockhart muttered to himself sounding crazed, saying things like, “This time, this time…” and “they’ll see, they’ll see.”

Roswitha didn’t think he was paying attention to her, but she didn’t think she could risk her wand either. She didn’t think it possible to speak either, without him noticing. Was it possibly to do magic without her wand? Without speech? Well, maybe. Roswitha realized that she didn’t need her wand to do her occlumency or to speak with Hogwarts, which was surely magic, and she was flourishing at both. Roswitha took another deep breath, and began to imagine.

It was slow work, imagining a knot undoing itself as it moved and snagged against the leather of her boots. After a minute or two, though, Roswitha felt the rope begin to sag, and she could widen her stride just a little bit. She didn’t – if Lockhart noticed a thing she was done for. But when she had her hands free, Roswitha knew she would have to act quickly before Lockhart noticed. Nimble as she could, she wretched herself away from him, kicked his legs out from under him and then ran.

"You fucking brat!" he called out.

Roswitha raced past an open doorway, not daring to stop or look back. "Danger," she said aloud. "Danger, Hogwarts! I need a wall! Make a wall right now."

She felt Hogwarts respond, the energy rushing under her feet, and only then did she turn back to see a wall rising out of the stone floors up to eight feet. Roswitha panted as she looked at it, daring to edge closer.

Lockhart spewed obscenities and abuse at them as he reigned down blows against the walls with his fists. “When I get a hold of your parents they’re dead! DO you hear me, Black?! DEAD!”Roswitha was backing away from the wall when they heard Lockhart screamed – not a scream of anger, but a scream of fear. Then, quiet covered the corridor like freshly fallen snow.

Was he faking? Roswitha wondered. She thought she heard a hiss, but she didn’t know if it was her imagination or something real. She walked up to the wall and as soon as she placed her hand on the stone some of the stones curved out to give her hand and foot holds so that she could climb to the top. When she got to the top, Roswitha swung her leg up and over to sit astride the wall like one would a horse. She looked around and found Lockhart standing straight up and completely still. She conjured a rock in her hand, hesitated only slightly before she remembered how he had slapped her, then threw it with all her might. Lockhart didn’t react – instead he toppled over like a doll and hit the ground with a thunk.

Roswitha patted the wall. “You can let me down, now, Hogwarts, thank you.”

The wall began to descend, leaving only a warm feeling at the base of Roswitha’s spine. Roswitha took stock in what was around her. Lockhart was petrified at her feet, and the only door in the corridor was the one which led to the girl’s bathroom.

“I don’t believe it,” she murmured. “I was actually right.”

From her satchel, Roswitha pulled out what blank parchment she had left and wrote a quick note to her father. _Am okay,_ she scrawled, pressed up against the stone walls. _Lockhart petrified, found chamber second floor corridor girl’s bathroom. Come quickly. –Roswitha._ Then, she cast the paper airplane charm on it and sent it off to him.

“A patronus would have been faster,” Roswitha muttered, as she went into the bathroom.

Roswitha felt overcalm, almost like she had staid up all night and now could not sleep. The bathroom looked like any other in the castle, except for the ghost presently turning on all the taps so the room would flood. There were stalls and sinks and mirrors – there wasn’t even a runoff pipe like Mr. Graves said there had been in the courtyard. Instead all Roswitha could find was a normal bathroom.

“Is there something I’m missing?” she muttered under her breath.

Roswitha’s mutterings drew the attention of the ghost. “What _are_ you doing in _my_ toilet?” the ghost asked.

“Looking for the Chamber of Secrets,” said Roswitha, honestly, turning to face the ghost. “Say, you haven’t seen any openings here, have you?”

“Harrumph, that’s a _fine_ way to go around,” said the ghost, crossing her arms over her chest. “_Not_ introducing yourself, _not_ asking my name.”

“Oh.” Roswitha blinked and remembered herself. “I’m sorry. My name is Roswitha – what’s yours?”

“_My_ name is _Myrtle_,” said the ghost. “And I didn’t notice anything except that water all rushed away for a moment right after I had finished flooding the place. It’s coming back now, though, and it will be a better flood than before.”

“I’m glad for you,” said Roswitha, and meaning it. “It’s a pain to have your work undone, isn’t it?”

Myrtle nodded. “I’m going to stop up the toilets too so they flood out.”

As Myrtle went to make the toilets flood, Roswitha thought for a moment – Myrtle said the water all rushed off. Then, there must be an opening here somewhere. Roswitha rounded the sinks again, not finding anything but trying to think about what it could be.

“What am I missing?” Roswitha asked.

_Command it_, came the sound of Hogwarts’ voice ringing in her mind.

Roswitha did not want to command. She felt exhausted, she was still afraid Lockhart would move and come after her, and she wanted nothing more than to collapse until the adults showed up to finish handling things. But Roswitha _did_ want to have something to show for herself when the others arrived. Besides that, the floor was rapidly filling with more than three inches of water. Feeling less than confident, Roswitha cleared her throat and said, “Show yourself.”

Nothing happened.

Hogwarts spoke again, _Speak as Salazar would have spoken it_.

Roswitha wanted to pout and cry – here she was with everything that had happened over the past few days and she now had to figure out a riddle.

Rattle-Eater peeked out from her shirt and wound around Roswitha’s neck. “_Famed-Strength_,_ I have been trying to rest, but you have jostled me a great deal. Now I can feel your anger through your skin.”_

_“I’m sorry, Rattle-Eater,_” said Roswitha, still feeling like she could stomp her feet and scream in a proper tantrum. “_I’ve been attacked and now I must figure out a riddle. It is difficult not be angry when all I want is for the Chamber of Secrets to reveal itself.”_

A rumble issued forth from the sinks, as they began to spread apart and reveal a large pipe underneath them. Roswitha stumbled back, trying to avoid the sinks and the rush of water as the flood gushed toward the pipe.

Several things happened at once – when the pipe opened up to view, and the waters began to flow toward it, Myrtle cried out, “My flood!”

Rattle-Eater, perhaps sensing fear, perhaps just wanting to be warm, dove back under Roswitha’s sweater and clasped round her arm tightly.

Roswitha, having stumbled, could not quite catch her footing fast enough against the tide, and fell back. Before she could pick herself back up, Roswitha found herself headed down the pipe feet first.


	10. The Chamber of Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roswitha slips down into the chamber, meets the basilisk and some things become clear.

Roswitha did not have time to stop herself going down the hole. If she had reacted to try and stop herself, chances were that she would have only gotten hurt, though. The tunnel leading down was much too wide for her to press her hands and feet against the wall, for instance, to try and hold her place. The tunnel went at such a steep slope that Roswitha went down quickly. It was better, then, that she had brought her arms and legs together, trying not to bump around too much. Roswitha thought it probably saved her the use of all her bones and minimized any bruising.

She was, however, soaked by the time the watery tunnel spat her out at the bottom into a pile of dirt, bones, and what Roswitha would only later identify as a snake skin.

When she reached the bottom though and came to a complete stop, Roswitha lay absolutely still for several minutes. At first, she lay trying to determine if what had just happened _had_ actually happened. When the chamber did not disappear, and Roswitha did not wake up, she realized it must have happened. The next few minutes, she stayed still, lying in the mess, breathing in and out as deeply as she could in order to remain calm.

Rattle-Eater slithered out from underneath her sweater after some time (how much she could not say) and hissed softly, “_Famed-Strength, you are growing cold._”

Roswitha grew more than cold – she was growing afraid as well. She thought if she sat up and did something about her situation, it would become more real, and then she really would start to panic. But if she caught cold all the way down in the chamber, when no one knew how to get to her, things could go from bad to worse. And if Roswitha couldn’t take care of herself, who would take care of Rattle-Eater? It was that last thought most of all that made Roswitha sit up, then get to her feet, then pull out her wand.

Waving her wand in a circle above her head, Roswitha encanted, “_Gebeðe_,” and felt a cloud of warmth envelop her, drying her clothes and skin and cleaning them. Her spirits felt roused as well, if somewhat temporarily.

“_Where are we, Famed-Strength?_” Rattle-Eater asked, coiling around Roswitha’s neck.

“_Somewhere called the Chamber of Secrets_,” said Roswitha as she rummaged around in her bag. She pulled out a hair tie that she used for Quidditch from her satchel and pulled her hair back – first into a tail, then into a bun as she had often seen Fay do. Her hair out of the way, Roswitha continued into the Chamber, looking all around her as she did to get a better idea of where she was.

The Chamber’s ceiling rose up so high, Roswitha had trouble seeing it – she could only just make it out because there must have been some sort of window or grate that let in light and air. She could see, as she walked deeper into the chamber that it had many halls that indeed let into the pipes, and pools of water that looked remarkably clean, if cold to the touch. The rest of the space though, looked untouched, if save for the mark of the large basilisk sliding over the floor and leaving marks in the dirt.

The longer she stood in it, the more the Chamber reminded Roswitha of Menacant when she had first arrived. It was dingy and had not been cleaned in an age. There was also a feeling like the air had gone stale and a coldness that permeated every inch – like there had been no magic here in, well, a millenia. But as the Chamber itself reminded Roswitha of Menacant, it also reminded her of what she had done then.

“Hello,” she said, and then coughed as the sound grated against her throat.

“_Did you say something, Famed-Strength?”_ asked Rattle-Eater.

Roswitha let herself cough again and clear her throat. “_Yes_,” she said. “_But I’ve just remembered, I need to say it as Salazar would have. You may want to prepare yourself, Rattle-Eater, I’m going to get loud.”_

Rattle-Eater let out a small, wordless hiss and moved to drape over Roswitha’s shoulders.

With the snake settled, Roswitha breathed in deep, filling herself up before she spoke, “_Hail and well met! I am Roswitha Artemis Black, childe of Salazar Slytherin, gone from you these many years! I am returned to you!”_

She exhaled all that she had in her and waited.

When Roswitha had first come to Menacant, she had been young enough not to feel, except the slightest bit, when magic was happening. But now, as she stood in the Chamber of Secrets, having announced herself as its heir, she felt the surge of magic. Roswitha felt it pour into the stone and mortar from the other parts of the castle, she felt it rise up from the pools, she felt the room itself shake with the presence it had so long been denied.

There was more – light began to pour in from overhead, and torches kept on the wall sprung to life with fire. The pools bubbled and steamed as the water warmed itself. The stone seemed to shake off or otherwise absorb the grime on it. After several moments of turning in place, Roswitha found herself somewhere she had not been just before. And when she turned back to her original place, Roswitha noticed, for the first time, a great door shaped like a disk, intricately carved. She noticed it because it began to sink into the floor, and as it did out slithered the basilisk.

Roswitha gasped, all the fear she had managed to fight until this moment coursing through her, and rooting her to the spot. Only as the basilisk drew closer still did Roswitha remember to close her eyes.

“_Who approaches_?” asked the basilisk, their voice as loud as thunder in Roswitha’s ear.

Roswitha could not speak, though she had roared with magic minutes before.

So, Rattle-Eater pushed forward, saying, “_I am the Ninth-One of my clutch, a constrictor, eater of rattles, companion of Famed-Strength, who knows great magic and can speak to snakes.”_

“_Yet Famed-Strength does not speak for herself_,” said the basilisk. Roswitha could not see, but she could feel a hot blast of air and could feel a wet tongue before her. “_She tastes of the one who I met before, the one who ordered me back to the chamber, yet she also tastes of fear. And what speaker ever feared snakes?”_

“_Famed-Strength_,” Rattle-Eater hissed, curling gently around her neck. “_You must speak_.”

“I…” Roswitha knew she had not spoken in parseltongue, and at the same time, she knew not why she was so afraid. She had stood before this very basilisk with only anger in her heart. Had it been anger, she wondered now. She had been ill for days beforehand, sick to her stomach with worry and foreboding. 

_But why_? She wondered.

Slowly, Roswitha opened her eyes. The basilisk stared back at her. If turning to stone felt like every other moment of life where one breathed, blood flowed, and one could still move, then Roswitha was turning to stone. She doubted it, however, and assumed that she was more likely alive.

_“I am afraid,_” she said, speaking in the serpent tongue. “_But I am not afraid for myself. I am afraid of what you might do to others if I help you. You have already petrified many wizards, O King of Serpents. Yet you beg me for my help. Why should I help you destroy others?”_

The basilisk hissed in displeasure and curled her coils around Roswitha – there was only a two foot radius around her now before she would meet with the coils of the giant serpent. Roswitha counted herself lucky she could still move and gripped her wand tightly.

“_A basilisk is guardian_,” hissed the giant serpent, her booming voice echoing across the walls, as her coils grew more tightly around Roswitha. “_I was charged by my speaker to watch over the home he had built…”_

All at once the coils stopped – they were not wound so tightly that Roswitha couldn’t move. Still, she gripped her wand as the basilisk came to rest her head on her coils to look directly at Roswitha. 

“_Where is Salazar?” _asked the Basilisk. “_Why has he not returned to me? Why does the world smell so different than before my hibernation?”_

Roswitha hesitated. “_Salazar did not want to leave you, great one. He took the path that all of us, snakes and speakers alike, take in the end.”_

_“Dead?!” _cried the Basilisk with a low, keening wail, loud enough that Roswitha’s hands nearly flew to her ears, as the Basilisk began to throw herself about. “_Who would dare take my speaker from me? Why do his young not rise up? Where his mate He-Of-Great-Power?”_

Roswitha knew not how to answer at first, especially as the basilisk continued to keen and wail her lament. She placed both her hands, wand digging into one palm, against the skin of the great serpent encanting, “_Gebeðe_,” and when the basilisk continued to struggle, she cast the spell again, to calm and warm the serpent. It took more strength than she thought she possessed at the moment, but Roswitha managed it. 

But, when the basilisk again lay calm in her coils, her head resting on the top, Roswitha began to feel her own sinking sensation of dread. 

For when the basilisk had calmed she said, “_Thou art the one who commanded me return to the chamber.”_

_“Yes,”_ said Roswitha, feeling quite weary. 

“_Who are thee?_” asked the Basilisk. “_And where is Salazar, my speaker?” _

Though Rattle-Eater did not speak, she slithered under Roswitha’s sweater and coiled around Roswitha’s arm. Roswitha’s heart sank as she turned over the basilisk’s words in her mind. 

“You don’t know,” she said out loud, laying her head against the body of the great beast. “You don’t know that he’s gone, even though I’ve just told you. What has happened to your mind, Great One?” 

As if she could sense Roswitha’s despair, the basilisk nuzzled her kindly. “_Despair not, young charmer, my speaker will come and all will be well.”_

Roswitha could not help it then; she began to weep and for several minutes could not control herself. When she could gain some control, all Roswitha managed was to say through her tears, “_O great serpent it is for you I weep_.” 

“_I_?” asked the basilisk. “_Why would thou weep for me, young speaker?”_

Roswitha stuggled again trying to think of a way to explain herself — to explain time and death in a tongue only half her own. “_I am a childe of Salazar, your speaker,” _said Roswitha at last, starting there.

“_Then thou knowst you have nothing to fear,_” said the basilisk. “_From me or from the chamber or from any in the great den of charmers_.”

“_I must tell you something_,” Roswitha hissed softly. “_And it will be difficult to understand — but I will do the best I can_.” 

“_Speak with wisdom and grace, young one_,” said the Basilisk, “_and all thou say shall be heard with understanding_.”

“_Do you know me as one of Salazar’s children?” _asked Roswitha at first.

“_Yes_,” said the Basilisk, coiling again, to support Roswitha. “_I do not know your scent or your face as well as some of the others, but you have the same magic as my speaker. You feel as he feels to me.”_

“_Why is it you do not know my face or my scent_?” Roswitha asked. 

The Basilisk let off a wordless hiss, almost like a hum as she thought for a moment. “_As your sire will have told you, Basilisks hibernate to consolidate our magic. You are not the first of Salazar’s children who I have met when they are far from their hatching.”_

“_So you will sometimes sleep for years and years, then, yes?”_ Roswitha asked. 

“_Yes,” _said the Basilisk, rubbing her massive head against Roswitha’s, her scales smooth and tickling her. “_It is a reason your sire built this chamber — to hold the magic sacred to his family, but also a safe place to rest, for you and I alike.” _

_“And did Sire Salazar ever tell you the year — the way charmers keep track of time?” _Roswitha asked, her hands finding the underneath of the basilisk’s head to scratch there. 

“_You ask many strange questions, little charmer,”_ said the Basilisk as she moved her head so that Roswitha might be able to scratch another part.

“_Did he?” _Roswitha asked. 

“_The last I remember he said it was 1023_,” said the Basilisk, gently. “_But thy brother Sulaiman had only just hatched, and could not yet feed himself. For you to be of an age where you speak and your magic is so lovely and green, it must have been some time more, has it not?”_

Here Roswitha began to sniffle and cry again, but she said what she needed to say_, “It has been much more time than you may know, dear serpent. For Salazar was not my sire, nor even my sire’s sire. Nearly one thousand years, the lives of five well lived charmers end to end, have passed in the time you have slept, dear serpent.”_

Roswitha expected the Basilisk to flail again, to panic and mourn so deeply. 

But all the Basilisk said was, “_Then thy brother was not Sulaiman but Thomas who has come before thee?” _

_“I know him not,_” said Roswitha, shaking her head. “_But I fear something has happened to you, dear serpent. That too long you have slept and so your mind cannot remember what has come and what has gone.”_ It explained all the attacks — the Basilisk had never meant to harm anyone. She had simply woken and gone looking for those who had loved her in years gone by._ “And though you have asked me to, I do not know how to help you, dear serpent.” _

_“Help me with what, little charmer?” _said the Basilisk. “_There now, be thee not so sad. My speaker Salazar will come soon. He will make right what has wronged._”

Roswitha could no longer console herself — she could not reason with the Basilisk, for she could not remember moment to moment even it seemed. So, she cried — for herself, for the Basilisk, for those who had been petrified all by some mistake. The Basilisk hissed to her, almost like a lullaby, and Rattle-Eater squeezed her arm encouragingly. But it was not often Roswitha could not think of something to do or some way of helping a body in need. At present all she could do was hope the adults could find her and cure the Basilisk with their own knowledge. 

It was just when she had lost nearly all hope that Roswitha felt the heat of a flame burst in above her. She turned, drawing her face from the basilisk’s flank and looked up. Fawkes, looking quite back to his normal self in bright red plumage appeared in the heights of the chamber, circling around something gripped in his talons. 

“Fawkes!” Roswitha cried, a surge of joy rising through her. “To me, Fawkes!” 

Fawkes swooped down, making a few circles as he went to slow down, before dropping his package in her hand, then landing on her outstretched wand arm. He trilled to her, not sounding sad, but perhaps concerned. 

“I’m alright,” she said, reaching out to stroke his feathers, before realizing she still held what he had given her. Roswitha shook out the cloth package with one hand and found it to be the sorting hat. Re-rolling it as best as she could, Roswitha pushed it into her cloak pocket, as she did not have need of the hat’s guidance at the moment. “Fawkes, I need your help. The Basilisk — something has gone wrong with her mind. She needs to be healed. You, that is, phoenixes can heal, can’t they?” 

Fawkes studied her for a moment, before he nodded. 

Roswitha gave a sigh of relief before she tensed again. “Can you heal her, Fawkes?” 

Fawkes grew still for a moment before he reached out his neck. Roswitha leaned forward as well, and their heads touched one another. His feathers felt almost like how Dumbledore’s mind felt against her own. And at his touch, Roswitha understood that something could be done — it might not work. But Fawkes would try. 

Roswitha pulled away and nodded to him. “Alright,” she said. “I understand.” 

Fawkes gave a trill and rose into the air, beginning to fly back and forth in the chamber as he gained altitude. 

“_O Great Serpent,” _said Roswita to the basilisk. “_There is a part of your mind in need of healing, and my friend the firebird has agreed to try and heal you. Will you accept his healing?”_

The Basilisk hissed softly, letting her tongue out to taste the air. “_You are kin of Salazar, art thou not?”_

“_I am.”_

_“One of my speakers hatchlings would not lead me astray. I will let the firebird bathe me.” _

_“Then stretch out your coils to their full length, O Great Serpent. I will stay with thee.” _

The Basilisk uncoiled her mighty body, moving until she lay in a long straight line. Roswitha moved with her, taking the serpent’s head in her hands, pressing their heads together as Fawkes had done for her. 

When they were ready, Fawkes let out a cry and suddenly let off a trail of fire that covered the whole floor of the chamber as he swooped across the length of the room once again. But his fire did not burn her, or the basilisk. Instead, it felt like the first hug she and Pappa had shared. It felt like Father spinning her around the living room as they danced together. It felt like the Pride all wrapped up with one another. His fire felt like love. Even once it had died away, it felt like love. 

“_Childe?”_ asked the Basilisk, in no more than a whisper, when the fire had died away. 

“_I am here,” _said Roswitha, opening her eyes to meet the Basilisks'.

“_How art thou called?” _asked the Basilisk.

“_I am Roswitha Artemis Black. My own snake called me Famed-Strength as that is what my name means. How are you called?”_

_“I was the Second-One of my clutch_,” hissed the Basilisk, “_And I was known for as Red-Stare in times of battle and mating. But my speaker Salazar always called me Inanna in honor of one of his goddesses.”_

Roswitha could scarcely speak loudly enough to ask, “_Do you remember what happened to him, Inanna?_”

Inanna was quiet a long time before she spoke, softly as well. “_He died, childe. His mate and some of his sons took him home to the warm sands from where we had come. Sahkr, his eldest child stayed with me.” _

_“Do you remember…”_ Roswitha trailed off, unsure of how to ask before forging ahead with a dep breath. “_Do you remember what you did of late when you awoke from your hibernation?”_

“_Yes,” _said Inanna, resting her head on Roswitha’s shoulder. “_I sought out others to help me in my confused state. But there were no speakers, and I grew sick from the fear of those I found. I stared at them, and they became petrified in their own flesh. Will they know that what I have done I did not mean to do? Wilt thou tell them, childe of my beloved Salazar?”_

Roswitha wrapped her arms around Inanna’s neck. “_Yes. I will tell them_. _But first I must leave the chamber to do so. Do you know how I may go out from here? I cannot go back the way I came.”_

_“Why ever not, childe?”_ asked Inanna, her tongue tickling Roswitha’s cheek.

Roswitha pulled away giggling. “_It was a long tunnel — and I cannot fly that way, nor can I climb it for it is too smooth for me to hold on._” 

“_I can traverse the tunnel,” _said Inanna easily, “_and take you out of the chamber.”_

Roswitha took a deep breath, trying to contain her excitement at the prospect of returning to the world up above sooner rather than later. “_You can?”_

“_Climb up on my back,” _said Inanna. 

Roswitha scrabbled to do so, eagerly, but then thought of the panic which might arose from their entrance. “_Wait a moment_,” she said, reaching for her satchel again. She pulled out the first piece of parchment she could find, scribbling out a message and passed it over to Fawkes. “Will you carry a message for me, Fawkes, back to Dumbledore?” she asked. 

Fawkes trilled a little and then held out his leg. Roswitha dug in her satchel a little for something to tie it on. When she did, Fawkes rose through the air, bursting into flames when he was out of reach of them. 

“_I am ready now,_” said Roswitha, moving to climb onto Inanna’s back.

“_Hold on tightly,” _said Inanna though she possessed no natural holds. 

Roswitha still did her best, for the serpent moved quickly as she began to slither away. 

Above her, Regulus paced furiously around the bathroom as the aurors examined the situation. Would he if he could, Regulus would have called on a hundred curse breaking colleagues to figure this situation much faster than an auror. 

Severus reached out and took Regulus’ hand in his, palming him a bottle. 

“I don’t want one,” said Regulus, trying to keep his voice from wavering. If he knew Severus, the bottle was a calming draught, which would only serve to make him listless and dull his senses, but make him no less anxious.

Severus, ever the stalwart one, only blinked at him blithely. “You must have something, Regulus — they may kick you out.”

Regulus shook his head again. “I’ll have our daughter back, or nothing at all.” As soon as he had spoken, though, he felt Albus’ eyes on him, his stare boring into Regulus. Never one to back down from a challenge, Regulus crossed the room to where the headmaster stood. “Is there something you needed from me, Headmaster?”

Those in conference with Dumbledore fell sheepishly silent at Regulus’ confrontation. To add insult to injury, Albus tried to be gentle, “Regulus, I cannot imagine the pain which you feel right now—”

“No, you cannot,” said Regulus, feeling fury light within him. “And do not tell me what you can imagine unless it involves ripping up this floor to get to my child.” 

Albus hardened to him. “Regulus, have care how you speak. You are not alone here — you need not act as if you are.” A caution more against being rash to those in the room than to soothe Regulus’ fears for his only child. 

"Albus, if I have left you the mistaken impression that you have any authority over me, allow me to relieve you of it." Regulus stared him down, daring the headmaster to try some sort of mind magic on him. "I am here to get my daughter back. If I have to dismantle this castle brick by brick then I will."

He ignored Scamander muttering that the floor would be sufficient and continued to stare Albus down. Regulus might have remained that way longer if a phoenix had not appeared in a burst of bright flame that had everyone duck and cover their eyes. When Regulus uncovered his eyes, Severus had appeared at his side, and Dumbledore had called the phoenix to his arm. A scrap of parchment clung to the phoenix’s leg, and when Albus untangled it, he read it in short order. Without a word, he held out the scrap to Regulus. 

_I have found a way out — will be along shortly. Cover your eyes. Roswitha_. 

Regulus read it aloud to the assembled company of aurors, board members and teachers, refusing to allow his voice to catch in his throat. 

“Cover our eyes?” asked Madam Bones, frowning. “She’s a bit late with her warning, isn’t she?”

“There must be another meaning to it,” said Lucius, frowning. “Precocious though she may be, the child is not one to mince her words.”

“Either that or she’s bringing us a basilisk,” said Scamander, completely at ease. 

Everyone in the room froze as if they had really been petrified. 

Graves only pinched the bridge of his nose. “Newton, we really need to work on your delivery.” 

“Hasn’t changed in the better part of one hundred years, my love,” said Scamander, leaning over to kiss her husband. “But perhaps we ought to focus on the fact that the child was well enough to send a note ahead of her coming, surely —”

Whatever she meant to say next would be lost to the chaos of her own mind for at that precise moment, the sinks in the bathroom opened up to reveal a gapping hole in the floor. From the hole, as Scamander had supposed, emerged the beast. Every auror in the room, as well as every teacher, raised their wands, spells on their lips. Before anyone could cast, though, a figure on the basilisk’s back popped up, crying, “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” 

“Roswitha!” Regulus cried, surging forward, basilisk be damned. 

His daughter looked down on him with a cheerful smile. “Hello, Pappa!”


	11. resolved... or is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing titles for the chapters slowly becoming more precarious.

Upon arriving back in the girl’s bathroom, Roswitha felt it might not have mattered that she survived all that — Pappa and Father seemed intent on squeezing her to death. They hadn’t even noticed that Inanna had settled into coils around them, so content they were to hold her. 

“I must have scared you awfully,” said Roswitha, muttering into Pappa’s chest. She had never seen them so concerned before. 

“You decided to confront a thousand year old basilisk,” said Pappa, his concern freezing into anger. He at last pulled away from her and held Roswitha at arm’s length. “What happened, Roswitha?” 

“I didn’t mean to,” she said, suddenly feeling very small as everyone else in the room was looking at them as well. “Myrtle flooded the room, so when I opened up the chamber I got carried away with the water. I just slipped.” 

“Oh you slipped into an ancient chamber only serpent speakers can enter?” someone asked, their voice laced with great sarcasm. Roswitha looked and found Madam Longbottom staring her down. Roswitha flinched, feeling her cheeks heat up as Madam Longbottom spoke again, “And what were you doing opening such a chamber in the first place?”

“Augusta,” Madam Bones hissed. “Maintain a little decorum. Miss Black likely needs medical attention.”

“What of the beast?” Madam Longbottom retorted. “Surely now that Miss Black has brought it to our attention we can slaughter it before it would hurt any others.” 

Roswitha wretched herself from her parents’ grasp and surged forward, vaulting over Inanna’s coils and spread her arms out in front of the great serpent. “Over my dead body.” 

Madam Longbottom only sneered at her. “_That_ can be arranged.” 

“Such sour words for a woman of your standing,” said Cousin Lucius, coming forward. He planted his feet next to Roswitha, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Little cousin, might you command the beast away for now? Surely, she would be more comfortable in her chamber?” 

In other words she was making people nervous. “She was only trying to get help,” said Roswtha plainly. “Inanna didn’t know at first that Salazar had died — her mind was in shambles.”

Lucius looked down at her, his eyes passive and face blank. “All the same, child. Send her away for now.” 

He was trying to save them, Roswitha thought, or at least delay what he thought might be inevitable. So, she turned to Inanna, wrapping her arms around the great serpent’s neck. “_They are frightened,”_ Roswitha said. 

“_Humans often are_,” Inanna hissed, softly. “_I could kill them with a look after all.”_

_“And they could kill you with a word_,” said Roswitha, nuzzling her. “_It does not make you more dangerous than they. Go back to the chamber, Inanna. I’ll have to come back for you later, or I’m afraid they will kill you where you coil.” _

_“You have returned for me once,” _said Inanna, nuzzling her in return. _“I trust you will do so again.” _Inanna uncoiled herself, sliding toward the sinks, all the humans in the room giving her a wide berth as she said, “_Open up,” _ making the sinks split apart again and the tunnel appeared. 

Roswitha followed Inanna as she slithered away, making she to block as much of the great serpent’s body with her own. That way, no one got a foolish idea like trying to kill Inanna with prejudice. When the sinks began to close up again, and Roswitha no longer had anyone to protect, she suddenly felt very small in this room of adults who had come to search for her. 

Free from Inanna’s coils, Pappa and Father came to stand by her, each of them pressing up against her shoulders. 

“It’s now late in the day,” said Pappa, quite firmly. “Our daughter needs a healer and to rest before she answers any questions by authorities — and by that I mean an auror.” At his last comment, Pappa leveled a look at Madam Longbottom who had opened her mouth to speak. “Or the Headmaster if you really are so concerned for the school.”

Madam Longbottom gave a little sneer, saying, “Perhaps a bath as well.”

Roswitha felt herself grow hot again as there were a few people who tittered at the suggestion.

Dr. Scamander, who cared little for the ceremony of others when it didn’t suit her, at the mention of a bath strode forward and knelt in front of Roswitha, examining her, muttering as she did. 

Madam Marchbanks stepped to the forefront of the crowd which had now encircled Roswitha, paying no mind to either Madam Longbottom or Dr. Scamander. “Miss Black is Professor Dumbledore’s apprentice; I am not certain the board could trust him to be impartial in this matter.” 

Father reached out and grabbed Pappa — Roswitha felt the swift movement as his hand brushed across her back. “And would you be that impartial party, Madam Marchbanks?” 

Marchbanks hesitated and considered his proposal for just a moment — it seemed after a thought she came to the same conclusion Roswitha did. Her professors all thought well of her, Lucius was her cousin (if only by marriage), Madam Bones had to adjudicate the law, Madam Longbottom hated their family. There were other governors, of course, but the rest of them occupied more of a “donate rather than participate” role based on her parents’ conversations.

“Very well,” said Madam Marchbanks, a moment later when she had conquered her hesitation. “Once the child has been seen to by Madam Pomfrey and had a bath.”

“Phoenix ash,” said Dr. Scamader, wiping at Roswitha’s forehead with her fingers. 

Everyone frowned at once, except Mr. Graves who took a deep breath in and out through his nose. 

“What do you mean, Madam Scamander?” asked Madam Marchbanks. 

“She’s covered in phoenix ash,” said Dr. Scamander, rising and moving to return to Mr. Graves’ side, passing by Madam Marchbanks as she did. “I’ll give my professional opinion at another time — it’ll be better that way, in terms of testimony.” 

Madam Marchbanks narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. “My, Newton, how polictic you have become.”

Dr. Scamander tilted her head to one side and smiled dreamily. “Not politic, dear Griselda; I am, and have always been, a believer in justice. Therefore I do what I can when I can to see it carried out.” 

“Hmph,” said Madam Marchbanks, narrow look softening. “Ever your father’s daughter.” 

“Quite,” said Dr. Scamander before she rejoined Mr. Graves. 

Roswitha felt glad of this interaction, for it drew eyes away from her as her parents shuffled her from the room. Cousin Lucius moved to follow them, but a look from Father stuck him in his tracks. They each took one of her hands as they walked, and walked swiftly, down to the infirmary where Madam Pomfrey awaited them. 

Pomfrey wore a look of grave indifference, trying to keep herself neutral when bad news might threaten the situation, but at the end of the exam she frowned quite heavily and hummed to herself for several moments. 

“Is something wrong?” Roswitha asked, studying the witch’s face. 

“How do you feel?” Pomfrey asked in return. 

“Quite well, actually,” said Roswitha. And when she had said it she realized how true her words were. She didn’t feel as if she had slipped down a long tunnel, propelled into a stone Chamber, and used quite a lot of magic reawakening a magical structure and calming an ancient beast. Roswitha felt almost like she did after she went for a run in the mornings then spent a half hour stretching. She felt relaxed, loose, and energized. 

Madam Pomfrey smiled at her, gently, as realization came over Roswitha. “Off hand, I would say you were healed by a phoenix, specifically by Fawkes. I’ve seen the work he can do before — usually on the scale of using his tears to heal specific injuries. But, judging by the fact that you are covered in ash, I would guess that he used fire on you, didn’t he, Miss Black?’ 

“On us both; me and Inanna,” said Roswitha, blinking. Now that she heard it aloud, being lit on fire sounded absolutely absurd. But it hadn’t hurt — and it was Fawkes. Fawkes who liked her treats, who would trill for her and nuzzle her. 

“And you aren’t… burnt?” Pappa asked, looking a little lost at this further revelation. 

Roswitha shook her head. “Not at all, I think,” she said. “It, well, it felt like being covered with love. Like well, just like love.” She couldn’t think of a way to explain it to her parents without embarrassing herself or her parents, so she left it as it was. 

“Phoenix fire only burns if they want it to,” Pomfrey explained, sotto. “I will take Roswitha into the infirmary bath to help her clean up, but I suspect she will be as healthy as ever. Better, possibly.” 

Pappa, who still had hold of one of her hands, gripped it tightly. 

Roswitha squeezed his hand in return. “I’ll just be one room over,” she promised, looking up at him. “You’ll be alright out here, won’t you?”

Pappa looked as if he might cry. Instead, he leaned down and kissed her forehead. “For a while, at any rate. And you need to get clean, my darling heart.” He let go of her hand and nudged her on her way. 

Madam Pomfrey led her into the infirmary bath which had two copper tubs. She set to work filling up the tub while Roswitha undressed. It wasn’t until she was down to her underwear that Roswitha remembered the little snake on her arm and that no one but her dorm mates had ever really seen her without clothes. Suddenly, she felt incredibly shy and worried what Madam Pomfrey would think of Rattle-Eater.

Madam Pomfrey was all business though, only rolling her eyes at the sight of Rattle-Eater. “The snake may go in the bath with you, but your underwear may not. I am a healer, now, Miss Black, no need to worry.” 

So, Roswitha removed the rest of her clothing, stepping into the bath and watching the ash pool around her when she did. Roswitha released Rattle-Eater to swim around in the warm water while she began to wash off. 

When Madam Pomfrey called an elf to take Roswitha’s clothes to the laundry she paused in her instructions, saying, “I suppose you don’t have any clothes here, hmm? They would be on the train.” 

“May I call one of the Black Elves?” Roswitha asked. 

Pomfrey gave a little shrug. “Certainly, if they can hear you.”

Roswitha focused on the elves and the feel of her home and called out, “Plop,” and Plop appeared with a popping sound. 

“Little Mistress is needing Plop?” asked the house elf. Plop fidgeted as she looked to Roswitha, and her eyes wandered around the room. 

“Yes, please, Plop,” said Roswitha. “Will you please get me some clean clothing from Maison de Menaçant? My trunk got sent down to London without me.” 

Plop focused back on Roswitha and nodded. “Yes, Little Mistress, Plop will be fetching them.”

“Plop, wait,” said Roswitha, reaching out for the elf. “What’s the matter?”

Plop hesitated just a little, but then spoke out, “Little Mistress is calling Plop from the House to a place that feels like the House, but is not the House.” 

“Feels like the House, how, Plop?” Roswitha asked, reaching out to take Plop’s hands as the elf reached up to tug on her ears. 

Plop hesitated again. Then, in the smallest voice, she answered, “This is being filled with the Little Mistress’s magic. There is only being a little, but Plop is being able to feel it.” 

“Oh…” said Roswitha, feeling as startled as Plop looked. She released Plop and leaned back in the tub. “I see.” 

Plop gave a short nod. “Plop will be getting Little Mistress her clothes — Plop will also be warning Bits of the snake guest for the conservatory.”

“Thank you, Plop,” said Roswitha, sheepishly ducking down a little as Rattle-Eater swum merrily through the water. 

The copper tub was enchanted to do away with grim and dirt, so as Roswitha bathed with fresh lemon and rosemary soap, she found the water only got cleaner as she did. Madam Pomfrey helped her wash her long hair, which now stretched down to her waist, clucking a little bit about the dead ends which needed trimming. Roswitha found she liked having her scalp scrubbed by gentle fingernails, and before she could wonder if this was something that all girls without mothers missed out on, Madam Pomfrey poured a fresh pitcher of water over her hair to wash it out. 

When Roswitha was clean, and truly warmed inside and out, she toweled off and dressed. Plop had brought Roswitha a skirt to wear, which meant Plop had also brought a petticoat and a shift, which Roswitha normally did without. Madam Pomfrey did not bat an eyelash however, only helping her with her stockings, then the shift and the petticoat, before letting Roswitha button up a linen blouse and fasten her long skirt. Plop returned with Roswitha’s boots, newly cleaned and polished, as Roswitha fastened on a cardigan to keep warm.

“You’re a marvel, Plop, thank you,” said Roswitha, taking a seat on a bench in the bathroom to lace them up. 

“I imagine that Madam Marchbanks has arrived by now,” said Madam Pomfrey as Roswitha finished her laces. “Would you like me to tell her you’re not fit to be seen?”

Roswitha shook her head as she looped her lace around itself twice before pulling through. “No, it will only just delay the inevitable.” 

Sure enough, when they exited the bathroom, Professor Dumbledore and Madam Marchbanks sat around a table with her parents and Madam Bones. A tea tray sat in the middle of the table, untouched. Roswitha suddenly found herself quite hungry at the sight of the food and the pot of tea, and so sat next to her Pappa and began to pour. They all took their cups, slightly perplexed at this action of hers, though Dumbledore gave her a small smile. 

Upon receiving her tea, Madam Marchbanks gave a customer sip then cleared her throat. “Now then, Miss Black,” she said, pulling from a hand bag a roll of parchment and a quill. “I really must insist that you tell me of your involvement with the Chamber of Secrets earlier today.”

“And I am afraid,” said Madam Bones, waving over an auror who had been lurking in the corner of the room, “that I must do the same.” 

The auror removed a parchment and quill from the pocket of her robes. Both quills stood up on their own when commanded to, and stayed poised, ready to write. 

Roswitha took her own several sips of tea, before setting aside the cup and saucer and beginning to speak. Through her parents' growls, she told about how Lockhart had taken her from the stream of students headed for the train. She told about how she, when given no other choice, had told him the chamber was located on the second floor where Mr. Filch had been found, leaving out how she had overheard Mr. Graves and Dr. Scamander talking. In further pieces, the story came out, how her guess had been correct, Lockhart had been petrified, Myrtle flooded the bathroom, Roswitha accidentally opened the chamber and fell in. 

“And you were not afraid to face down a basilisk?” Madam Marchbanks asked, frowning at her. 

Roswitha stilled her shoulders from shrugging. “Of course I was. I knew she was dangerous, if not unwell at that time. But I had to take some sort of chance — at the time it seemed like it was more dangerous to stand and do nothing.” She continued on through, realizing Inanna had an illness of the mind, Fawkes healing Inanna, and Inanna bringing her back up to the surface. 

Madam Marchbanks did her best to keep her face passive, though did not always succeed. When Roswitha finished her tale, Marchbanks wore a most persistent frown. “If,” Marchbanks said after several severe moments of silence, “what you have said is true, then Professor Lockhart will need to be removed at once — well, when he is revived, I suppose. And, if the basilisk is truly healed, then I suppose she does not pose a further danger, at present. However, in your testimony raise one point of contention for me.”

“Oh?” asked Madam Bones, sipping her cup of tea. “And what is that, Griselda?”

“Miss Black, you admit to being a parselmouth, do you not?” asked Madam Marchbanks, focusing her cool gaze on Roswitha.

“Yes, Madam, I am,” said Roswitha, reminding herself to stay sitting up straight. 

“And this basilisk, you called her Inanna, she listens to you?” 

Roswitha nodded, again saying, “Yes, Madam.” 

Madam Marchbanks pursed her lips, looking to Pappa, then to Dumbledore, then back to Roswitha. “Then how, might I ask, may we be assured that you will not order the basilisk to do further harm in the future.” 

Pappa opened his mouth, likely to say something along the lines of “How dare you!” and Dumbledore sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, but Roswitha beat them all to the punch by saying, “That’s a very good question, Madam.” 

For a moment it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room and all eyes landed on her. Roswitha wondered if she would have to get used to large groups of people looking at her. She supposed, in a way, she already was used it, from year meetings and whenever the pride turned to her for a decision. All Roswitha had to do then, was pretend these adults were her peers. 

“What was that?” Madam Bones asked when she had regained her bearings. 

Roswitha sipped her tea and said, “Well, Madam Bones, I can understand how Madam Marchbanks would be worried about Inanna. After all the petrifications and the reputation Salazar Slytherin had, if I didn’t know myself then I might be worried as well. But the facts are these: Salazar Slytherin installed Inanna in the school to protect it. In her state of madness before she sought out only those who could help her and reacted to the fear she received. Now that she is returned to a state of sanity, I doubt that a parselmouth could command her to harm another student purely on a whim.” 

Madam Marchbanks looked at her point blank. Roswitha could sense a legilimency attempt, but when butted up against Roswitha’s occlumency, Madam Marchbanks asked, “And would an heir of Slytherin be able to command the basilisk to do so?” 

“Griselda!” said Madam Bones and Dumbledore at once.

“I hope,” said Pappa in a very low voice, “that you are not implying what I think you are implying.” 

“There are certain rumors,” said Madam Marchbanks firmly. “Rumors which seem to ground themselves in fact. However much you claim her as your daughter, Regulus, she looks more like Bellatrix than you _and_ she can speak to snakes.” 

“Griselda,” said Dumbledore, sounding more and more resigned, “you met both Bellatrix Black and Thomas Riddle when they were students here, though you did not know them intimately. Does Roswitha Black strike you as having either one of their personalities? Their temperaments? Their cruelty?”

“Perhaps not,” said Madam Marchbanks. “But she has all of their charisma — and some of Sirius’ to boot. And we all know how _he_ turned out despite a promising beginning and lion’s clothing.” 

Before anyone could explode any further, Roswitha chimed in saying, “Susan Bones wrote you an letter at the start of last term, didn’t she?” 

Again, the building surge of anger was broken by her strange question. 

Madam Marchbanks furrowed her brow. “Well, yes, she did. She wanted to know what was tested on the OWL and how to break it up between five years. Did she… are you friends with Susan?” 

Roswitha nodded. She had the impression that Susan had grown up with many high ministry officials as godparents, aurors trailing after her to keep her out of trouble; it seemed she was right. “We’re not best friends — her best friend is Hannah Abbott and mine’s Dean Thomas.” Or Hermione and Ron, but they didn’t need to know that. “But we’re friends and we talk a lot during year meetings. After Susan received your return owl, she asked me to teach a secondary defense class, since had all seen Lockhart’s rubbish teaching by then though the board refused to remove him.”

“Had you?” Madam Bones asked, raising an eyebrow. Roswitha wondered briefly if Madam Bones had been able to make that board meeting.

“Oh yes,” said Roswitha, smiling brightly. “He released a horde of cornish pixies on the Ravenclaw/Hufflepuff Class, then left them to clean up the mess. So, Susan had the idea to have a second session where we could actually learn defensive magic. And she asked me to teach it — because I’m the best in our year at magical theory and casting. So because I am the best at magical theory and casting, when I say that I knew in my magic the moment I met Pappa that he was my father, I hope you believe me, because he is. And I might look like my cousin Bellatrix, but my mother’s name was Lilith Hansen. She had red hair and liked to sing me Led Zepplin songs as lullabies.”

Pappa reached out and took her by the hand, which Roswitha squeezed, even as she maintained eye contact with Madam Marchbanks who looked a little guilty at the moment. From the corner of her eye, Roswitha thought she saw Madam Bones look a little surprised at her declaration.

“And if I am an heir of Slytherin, which I very well may be, then it is by my mother Lilith, not my father,” Roswitha continued, her voice growing soft. “You may spread _that_ rumor as much as you like. That my muggle mother was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, and from her I gained the ability to speak to snakes.”

All was quiet for a moment, as they took in what Roswitha said, the only noise in the room the sound of the quills scratching against parchment. 

“There is another fact you would not know,” said Madam Marchbanks, after she could no longer take the silence. “There was another Heir of Slytherin, or so it was claimed, some fifty years ago, when students were petrified as they were now. Eventually another person was apprehended, who, quite frankly had no Slytherin blood in him all, and now, it seems clear, could not have caused these petrifications that are so similar to the ones you admit the basilisk caused. What say you to that, Miss Black?”

A thought turned over in Roswitha’s mind — something Dumbledore had said combining with something Inanna had said. “When did Thomas Riddle attend school here?” she asked after a moment’s thought. 

“From 1938 to 1946,” said Professor Dumbledore, folding his hands in his lap. “I think you may have surmised what I have, Miss Black — that Thomas Riddle also known as the Dark Lord Voldemort was the one to open the Chamber of Secrets fifty years ago.”

“You _knew_ this?” Madam Bones asked, her eyes going wide. 

“I suspected at the time of course,” said Dumbledore, gently, looking over his half-moon spectacles. “And I voiced my suspicions to Headmaster Dippet and the board. Both were dismissed and Mr. Riddle was given an award for special services to the school — he was the one who ‘discovered’ the culprit, you see.”

“And even knowing all of this,” said Madam Marchbanks, frowning in Roswitha’s general direction, “you still claim not to be dangerous?” 

Roswitha did not hold back her shrug this time. “Yes,” she said, even though the question also raised her parentage again, though silently.

“How?” asked Marchbanks. 

“Because I don’t want to hurt anyone,” said Roswitha, feeling there is no other way to put it. “I’m friends with muggleborns and purebloods. I want the houses to cooperate instead of competing against one another for no reason. I don’t…” She sighed, rubbing her forehead, feeling a pang there. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. That will have to be enough.” 

“Headache, Miss Black?” Madam Pomfrey asked, looking up from where she had been writing at her desk. 

“Seems so, Madam,” said Roswitha. The pang had not gone away with rubbing and now had begun a dull throb across her forehead. 

Madam Pomfrey stood from her desk and fetched a vial from her stores. As the table of other adults sat quietly, considering Roswitha’s words, Madam Pomfrey gave her the vial, and Roswitha drank it down. 

“Well, that’s good enough for me,” said Madam Bones, waving at the auror to stop the transcription. “Gilderoy Lockhart will be taken into custody when he’s awoken. And Miss Black, if you could send along whatever transcriptions your years’ research has yielded before you send it to print, I would appreciate it.” 

“Research?” asked Father speaking for the first time in a long time. 

Roswitha squirmed a little as she turned to him. “Well, part of the reason I’m so good at magical theory and casting is because I know how to research. So, erm, as part of our defense class I set everyone one of Lockhart’s books to research and see if they might fight factual inaccuracies.”

Father and Pappa both broke out into twin grins they couldn’t seem to help. “Oh? And what have you found?” 

Roswitha, who had not yet begun to draw conclusions from her own research, let alone the rest of the years’, simply said, “Quite a lot — we shall have to wait and see how it bears out.” 

Father’s grin turned to a fond smile. “Very well, my child. But bear in mind there will be others reading your research aside from your peers. Perhaps it would do well to remember such a thing.” 

Roswitha refrained from groaning, but only just barely. 

Their interview now finished, Madam Bones, her auror, and Madam Marchbanks all righted themselves and said their farewells. In Madam Marchbanks’ case, this included looking Roswitha up and down with suspicion one last time before she departed. 

As soon as she had, Pappa took Roswitha up in his arms once again and held her there for several minutes. Roswitha did not mind being held close and snuggled into him, breathing deeply of Pappa’s scent, and turning her head so Father might stroke her hair. “I am sorry,” she said after sometime. “I did try to be prudent and wait for you and for Professor Dumbledore. It was just… circumstances intervened.” 

“I understand,” said Pappa, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “But I will always worry after you, my darling heart. Please remember that when you go on these adventures — I am beginning to worry if either of us can stop them from happening. But remember I will think of you always and often, and sometimes with worry.” 

“I’ll remember,” Roswitha promised. 

Professor Dumbledore coughed, prompting them to pull apart. “I do not mean to rush you,” he said. “But knowing dear Roswitha’s friends, will likely make ready to storm the castle when they realize she is not on the train. Perhaps the three of you should see yourselves down to London for some dinner and some company.” 

Roswitha’s eyes went to the clock on the wall — it seemed this whole episode had taken ages, but it was only just afternoon. The Hogwarts Express would dock in London in a few hours — and no doubt everyone would have gone spare by now. “Erm, Pappa, Father? Could I persuade you to allow at least a dozen children and their parents into our house in a few hours?”

“What’s in it for us?” Father asked, though Roswitha was reasonably sure the twitch on his face resembled a smile. 

“It will likely happen anyway, but if you say yes now, we have time to prepare?” Roswitha said, smiling up at him. 

Father rolled his eyes, and Pappa managed a chuckle. “C’mon then,” said Pappa reaching out to take one of her hands as Father took the other. “Let’s go home.” 

They walked down to Hogsmeade and flooed to Grimmauld Place. Roswitha wondered if they were both just nervous or magically exhausted or both, but decided not to ask. Pappa summoned all their elves and let them know of impending company and then ordered lunch around a yawn. 

“Tired, my love?” asked Father, as they made their way to the family solar. 

“Feel as though I could sleep the afternoon away,” said Pappa. He then turned and squinted at Roswitha. “You are not to go to Kings Cross by yourself, do you understand?”

Under other circumstances, Roswitha would have taken this less as a rule and more as a guideline. But given that she had been trapped in an underground chamber for more than an hour that day, and therefore scared her parents witless, she swiftly nodded and said, “Yes, Pappa, I understand.” 

When they had eaten lunch, her parents went to have a nap so as to be energized for their later company. Roswitha attempted to have a nap as well, though found quickly that she couldn’t sleep at all. Instead, she pulled out her research on yetis, now nervous about it being seen by anyone outside of their year, and went to the family library to search for any books she might have missed over the holidays. Roswitha managed to find one, and sat down to research it, glancing up at the clock for what felt like every ten minutes until it was nearly time to leave for King’s Cross Station. 

Leaving her notes and things were they were, she went to wake her parents, tip-toeing gently to where they lay curled up in their bed together. Pappa cracked open an eye before she made it to the bed, and waved a hand to shoo her out. It was then Roswitha noticed that they both seemed to be naked — though fully covered by their sheets and blankets. Then she wondered if they had had sex. 

She flushed and pushed the thought away from her. “How silly,” she murmured to herself. “I’m more afraid of thinking that my parents did something… like that than I am of facing a basilisk.” In fairness, Roswitha thought further, a basilisk was a little harder to ignore. She wondered then how Inanna fared down in her chamber, and if anyone had actually resorted to tearing up the floor stones to get to her. Roswitha hoped not, and then doubted that they could. She had a firm, warm feeling well up from her belly that Hogwarts would not let it happen. 

In the end, Father was the only one to go to the train station on the grounds that Pappa was the better host and Roswitha would only over excite her friends. About a half hour after Father left, they began to receive people through the floo and by apparation, several of the wizarding parents side-along apparating the non-wizard parents and children alike. Roswitha’s friends all converged on her with worries and hugs alike. 

Pappa shooed the children all up to the playroom while the parents congregated at first in the parlor and would likely make their way up to the sitting room later. 

The Pride, the Weasleys, a handful of Slytherins, several Hufflepuffs and even some Ravenclaws gathered around as Roswitha told her tale of being taken by Lockhart, slipping into the Chamber, and healing the basilisk Inanna with Fawkes’ help. 

“That poor creature,” said Justin, when Roswitha had finished, frowning at the floor. “She was just looking for her friend — and when everyone was afraid, she just became afraid as well.”

“But she still attacked other people,” said Susan, while she nibbled her lip.

“People we liked,” said Morag MacDougall, her mouth set into a firm frown as the rest of the Ravenclaws present agreed with her. 

Roswitha nodded in agreement with Morag. She had spent the time studying also thinking about those who had been hurt by Inanna’s confusion, and the list was several people long. “I agree, but what punishment can you enact for petrifying others? And I don’t know that she can be removed from Hogwarts when Salazar Slytherin instilled her there. But let’s leave all that to the adults.”

Privately, Roswitha thought that if they tried to hurt Inanna, Roswitha would find a way to set the serpent free. True, if she could, Inanna would likely want to atone for her wrongs. But Roswitha could not see what atonement death would bring. 

Most of her yearmates, their bellies full and curiosity satisfied, and their parents, much relieved, left shortly after supper. But the Pride and their parents hung around and neither Roswitha nor her parents really objected. Roswitha delighted in the chance to show her friends the conservatory and everyone immediately wanted to go for a swim. Roswitha called up bathing suits and divided the sitting room and the formal dining room into dressing rooms for the girls and boys to change while she went to ask her parents for permission. 

As she crept up the stairs, though, Roswitha happened upon a conversation that made her hang back. 

“But really,” asked Maj. Thomas while a record played softly, “Where’s the wine as old as Napoleon?” 

“In the wine cellar with the rest,” said Pappa. Roswitha couldn’t see his face, but she imagined he was grinning. “Why, you want to open a bottle?” 

“Oooh,” said Mrs. Patil. “Yes, please.” 

“_I_ want to know,” said Mrs. Roper, “is it really true that the Black Family makes their own mead.” 

“We have several bottles of that as well,” said Pappa. 

“What’s your poison, Severus?” asked Mr. Dunbar. 

“Cut wine when I must drink for social occasions,” said Father. 

“I always imagined you as a larger man,” said Mr. Dunbar — he was friendly with Father, so Roswitha imagined him with a grin and a playful slug of Father’s arm, which Father would only just allow. 

And she imagined Father rolling his eyes when she heard his tone of voice. “It isn’t that I don’t like drink — quite the opposite in fact.”

“Then why don’t you?” asked Mrs. Dunbar. “Come now, we’re alll friends here, aren’t we Sev?”

Father only hummed for a moment before he said, “Well, then, you won’t mind me telling you that I don’t drink because my father was a drunk.” There was a beat where Roswitha heard someone gasp in the room. “I do however smoke if you’ll permit me that?” 

“Severus Snape!” said Maj. Thomas. “Are those blunts?”

“They are,” said Father. 

“That’s illegal in Great Britain you know.”

“I do,” said Father. “Going to narc on my Emmy?” 

“Prat,” said Maj. Thomas, fondly. “No, I won’t. But open a window will you? I’m up for Lieutenant Colonel soon and I don’t need Mary Jane showing up on my tox screen.” 

Roswitha backed away from the room as they began to pass around Father’s marijuana cigarette and decided not to ask about swimming and just go and do it instead. If Father could have an illegal cigarette, they could hardly fault her for going swimming without an adult present, couldn’t they? 

Hogwarts remained closed for the next two weeks as the Professors reviewed the castle to make sure there were no other dangers lurking about. During that time, Father insisted that there would only be other children over once a week. So, every day Roswitha met Dean and Sophie for PE time in park about equidistant from all of them, on Tuesdays much of their year met up at the Bones residence for general study time, and on Fridays everyone showed up at the House of Black for Defense Against the Dark Arts. Roswitha even had the House bring out an old school room that would house all of them for the time being. 

Since they would only be out of school for two weeks and that was much like their normal Easter break, and though she did let her fellows know that their defense research would likely be reviewed by adults, Roswitha took this time to relax a little more. She was caught up in her studies and felt much better about teaching Defense now that Hogwarts seemed safe again. Hermione reminded her, as well as the rest of the Pride, that they would need to start thinking about which extra curricular classes they would take next year. She reminded just Roswitha that exams would be coming up in about two months, and since Roswitha was _technically_ the DADA teacher, she would be writing the exam. 

“Don’t worry,” said Hermione. “I’ll write one for you to take.”

So, Roswitha spent her days doing a little homework, exercising, thinking over her class options and writing up an exam covering what they had studied and what they would study all the way up to exam times. 

Roswitha was pretty sure she wanted to take Arithmancy as she liked mathematics and always had. She also knew enough about the non-magical world that taking Muggle Studies seemed like a bit of a waste of time. Her other one or two classes, though were a bit up in the air, as Divination, Care of Magical Creatures and Ancient Runes were all things she _might_ like to do, but wasn’t sure of. She was so unsure of herself that towards the end of Easter break, Roswitha found herself lurking in Pappa’s study doorway.

“Can I help you with something, darling heart?” he asked, after a time, not looking up from his document that he was working on. 

“Did you take Ancient Runes in school?” Roswitha asked without ceremony, taking his question as an invitation to enter the office. 

“I did,” said Pappa, still scribbling away at his work. “I knew I wanted to be a cursebreaker then, which requires both ancient runes and arithmancy as both are integral in understanding warding and spell crafting. Narcissa and Andromeda both took divination and art the latter of which is no longer offered, but both of which were considered husband catching classes.”

Roswitha wrinkled her nose and at her gesture, Pappa finally looked up from his work with a smile. He tapped her on the nose and pulled her close so that Roswitha could sit on the chair with him, her legs danging over the arm of the chair. “Don’t wrinkle your nose,” he said. “It might get stuck that way.” 

“What did Father take?” Roswitha asked, resting her head on Pappa’s shoulder. 

“Care of Magical Creatures and arithmancy,” said Pappa, as he rested his chin on her head and wrapped his arms around her. “Both, though not integral to potion making, helped him advance to his mastery very quickly.”

Roswitha sighed. “It sounds as if one has to know what one wants to do with the rest of one’s life before picking classes one will take possibly only for two years.” Such a task of picking out elective classes also seemed grossly less important when Roswitha had confronted a Basilisk just a week before.

Pappa chuckled and kissed her forehead. “Not exactly. Cousin Meda’s a barrister, remember? She only got an A on her OWL for Art but after that she found that she had a passion for law. She clerked at a law firm from the time she graduated for two years and came to the bar after that. And there are plenty of other people who get apprenticeships without an NEWT or an OWL score, you know. These days a NEWT typically makes you a journeyman in any case. It’s a little harder to act as an apprentice, certainly, and you won’t be a master by the time you’re twenty-one like Father was, but there are many people who go that route. 

“I want you to understand, my darling heart, that there is absolutely no shame in not working out what you want to be when you’re twelve, alright?” 

“Alright,” she said, looking up at him with a smile. “But aside from already knowing that I wanted to take Arithmancy, I don’t know what else to do.”

“Well, you already have a greater versing in ancient runes than the average young witch might,” said Pappa, “so that may not challenge you as much as it would your peers. If you keep an interest in it, even a casual one, you may also be able to take it up again at another time should you decide an in depth knowledge will be useful to you. I can also tutor you if necessary. Given your love of animals and proclivity for patting ones you should not —”

“I don’t!” Roswitha protested pulling away from him. 

Pappa laughed at her, directly in her face, though less cruelly than he could have. “My darling heart, you pulled an unknown snake off of one of your friends, regularly feed fish to a phoenix to who can, and has, gouged out a part of your arm, and faced down a basilisk with your eyes open. Not to mention you want to own every animal under the sun. Might I suggest that you see your way to care of magical creatures?” 

Roswitha pouted and rolled her eyes. “I guess if you put it that way…”

“Yes, I shall,” said Pappa, grinning as he reached out to tickle her. 

They tussled for a moment and as Roswitha gained the upper hand, Pappa called out, “Mercy, mercy.” 

When they had settled down again, Roswitha asked, “Very well, then, what about divination.”

“Hmm, well, I’ve always been of the opinion that it does not do much good if you are not already predisposed to the gift of sight,” said Pappa with a mild shrug. “There are others, like Cissa, who say that the study itself can open ones’ ability of foresight. As long as you have two other classes, you could drop it; but I’ll tell you right now, Father and I won’t sign off on you dropping a class mid-year. If you choose to do something, you ought to commit to it, at least for a length of time to see if you’re able to adjust, alright?”

“Yes, sir,” said Roswitha giving an honest nod. “Should I ask Cousin Narcissa about divination?”

“You certainly may,” said Pappa, shrugging, “but be prepared for a long conversation when you do.” 

The conversation was a long one indeed — Narcissa talked all through afternoon tea and continued to write Roswitha letters up until she returned to school. But it gave Roswitha enough of a differing perspective that she decided to put own for Divination when the time came, along with Pappa’s suggestion of Care of Magical Creatures and her own choice of Arithmancy. 


	12. Resolved for Real Now

The return to Hogwarts this time seemed less than it had before — less exciting than the start of the new year, less apprehensive than returning this Christmas had been. Roswitha felt relaxed for a change and like almost everything in her life was sorted. She wrote in her diary, listened to the others prepare for the play that they had nearly finished working on (they would need to build sets when they returned to Hogwarts, but everyone had learned their lines, costumes were finished over the two week break, and Lavender had even gone so far as to make advertisements), and even wrote Rolf a letter as she had not when she was home for break. 

Roswitha found herself writing too much in the letter though, and when she looked up from it, she realized that she would need to redraft it later. For as she explained what she could to Rolf, she found herself asking a question which had not occurred to her when she had initially come out of the chamber. The question was old and new at once: how had Hogwarts not realized that there was danger in the school?

But then she had run back to the old thought of how do you not realize there is a basilisk at large? Hogwart was everywhere — it was the nature of being a building. Perhaps, Roswitha thought at first, that the castle had associated the basilisk with its role as the protector of Hogwarts. But then, surely, as it was everywhere, Hogwarts must have seen the interactions between Inanna, lost in small moments of her own mind, and the fear of the staff and students who came upon her. Hogwarts had to have known — there was no other way around it. 

It prompted a second question for her, then: if Hogwarts had known, why had it said nothing when she had asked? 

This thought she could not complete on the train, in writing her letter to Rolf or anywhere else. Roswitha would turn it over slightly in her head, but refuse to go any further in it while she was around the others. Because if she went any further, Roswitha was going to get angry — she was going to get very angry indeed. 

As it was, by the time they left the train, the anger was already starting to drip off of her like rain. “Vee?” Neville asked, as they were about to disembark. “Are you alright?” 

Roswitha pulled herself out of her own thoughts with a little, “Hmm?” When she realized what Neville had asked, she said, “Oh, yes, I’m fine. Just thinking.” 

Neville took her by the hands and looked her in the eye. “Remember: no adventuring without us.” 

Roswitha smiled and had the strongest urge just then to lean in and kiss Neville on the cheek. She abated it at the last moment, for she still didn’t know if she liked him the way he liked her. All the same, Roswitha said, “I’ll remember, but thank you for the reminder. I could actually use some help with something after supper, if you wanted to?” 

Neville nodded eagerly. 

It probably was not nearly as exciting as what anyone had envisioned about adventures, but even knowing he would just be watching her meditate, Neville still seemed as eager as he had been before. “And if I can’t rouse you?” he asked, nibbling his lip. 

“Go get Professor McGonagall or Professor Snape if you can find him more easily,” said Roswitha fluffing up a pillow from their reading corner in the clubhouse. She settled on it, wiggling a little as she crossed her legs and assumed a comfortable seat. “And you don’t have to watch me the whole time. Just keep an eye on the clock, really.” 

Neville nodded seriously, and Roswitha nodded back.

With that confirmation, she closed her eyes and began to connect with the castle. 

Instead of their sunny meadow, Roswitha built up a scene in her mind’s eye that looked like the Chamber of Secrets. Hogwarts appeared to Roswitha in a new form she had never seen before — one of a man in green robes, a blue tunic and white trousers with a well groomed beard, dark dark olive skin, short black hair and dark, inquisitive eyes. 

“Is this what Salazar looked like?” asked Roswitha as she observed Hogwarts’ avatar. 

“Yes,” said Hogwarts. It paused for a moment before saying, “You’re angry, blood of my beginning.”

“Yes, I am,” said Roswitha, nodding simply, feeling the rage bubble up inside of her. “Because in the fall I asked you if there was anything I should be considered about, and you told me no. And not only was there a basilisk roaming around, needing help when I am the only parselmouth in Britain, but _you_ _lied to me_. Furthermore, I think it was _you _who woke Inanna and loosed her in the first place! And people were harmed because of it.” She clenched her fists. “You’re a school — you’re meant to protect those who reside here — not — not …”

“But I am!” said Hogwarts, falling to its knees and taking Roswitha in hand. “You are the childe of Salazar Slytherin — the only heir of those who created me to walk through these doors within the past fifty years. And you! _You _are kind and care for others and have the strength to protect them all. But you will not grow always asking for what you want. And you will not grow if things always go your way. You must struggle — you must learn to be the commander of magic you were born to be.”

“This is a school,” said Roswitha, feeling her anger mix with confusion, “not a battleground.”

Hogwarts shook its head, Salazar’s voice speaking its thoughts in a mellow, pleasing tone. “One day, sooner than either you or I would like, it will be. All those you love will be soldiers if they choose it or they don’t. And you will lead — if you do not choose this path you may still end up in its crossroads and not fair well for it. But if you choose to, you will save many lives, and help many more in the years after. When you retrieved the stone, I knew you were the one — the one who could achieve greatness, not for yourself but to help others. This is for what I seek to prepare you. If we do not prepare we will all perish.” 

Roswitha considered what the castle said — Hogwarts had a lot of magic at its disposal. That it could see into its own future, Roswitha did not doubt being beyond its capabilities. So, if it were true the castle was, then Roswitha would need all the preparation she could get. “If what you say is true, then I need to be able to trust you. I cannot trust you when you lie to me — I cannot trust you when you do as you have done this past year. If you want to prepare me, I accept, but you cannot hide things from me when it is convenient for you.”

“You may not always like what I have planned for you,” said Hogwarts, the brown eyes of Salazar Slytherin never wavering from her. 

“It’s either this or I transfer somewhere else,” said Roswitha, firmly. “Or prepare for that future on my own, let you go dormant again.”

Salazar’s eyes harden. “You wouldn’t.”

“I’m nearly thirteen,” said Roswitha, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve raised up generations — you think I can’t be stubborn when I want to be?” 

Hogwarts huffed and released her from its hold, pacing a distance before returning to her. “Some things will not be challenges if you know all that I have planned.”

“I don’t need to know all of it,” said Roswitha, shrugging. “Simply that you have something planned — that there will be a test afoot if not what it is is enough for me.” She held out her hand to Hogwarts’ avatar. “Do we have a deal?”

Hogwarts sized her up for a moment before it laughed, a laugh that pulled the air from its belly and made it double over. “My, how like them you are. Yes, childe,” Hogwarts reached out and grasped her forearm, “we have a deal.” 

Roswitha inhaled sharply as she opened her eyes. The first thing she noticed was Neville’s warm hand on her shoulder. “Was that thirty minutes?” 

He nodded. “You seemed alright — you’ve got good color, didn’t wobble or anything. Do you feel up to standing?” 

Roswitha nodded and took Neville’s offered hands pulling herself up. Her head spun for a moment, but just a moment. She ignored how warm Neville’s arm was around her waist as he walked her over to a chair and helped her sit in it. What Roswitha could not ignore was that there was now a table full of people staring at her. 

“Trouble?” Susan Bones asked — as she did she reached out and took Hannah Abbott’s hand.

Roswitha thought on it for a moment then shook her head. “Not now — for now, all’s well that ends well. Just had to check on something and made sure I knew where I stood.”

“But you _would_ tell us, wouldn’t you?” asked Pansy, nibbling her lip. “If there was trouble?”

Roswitha gave an easy grin. “Always.”

And with that, it seemed as if the second year students all let out whatever breath they had been holding and relaxed. The trouble was passed, and there was no trouble on the horizon they could yet see. 

There were only three events of note that Roswitha found to mark the end of her second year. The rest of the time blurred together as study sessions, defense lessons (which now took place at the regular class time since there was no Lockhart to interrupt), and watching the costume and set collection for Hogwarts’ First Ever Production of _Dracula_ grow. 

First came the exam period for defense against the dark arts. Roswitha had finished her written test and passed it out to her classmates, Hermione passing over an exam to Roswitha. They all sat down to take it, scribbling down answers. They had been hard at work for nearly five minutes when Professors Snape, McGonagall, Flitwick and Sprout shuffled into the classroom, each holding sheaves of paper. 

Everyone looked up at the Professors and the Professors looked back at them. 

Roswitha at last spoke up, “Is something the matter Professors?”

Professor McGonagall frowned at them. “You’re taking an exam?”

Roswitha nodded. “Yes of course.” She wanted to add that it _was _time for exams, but at the last minute thought it would be too impertinent of a remark. 

“Who wrote this exam?” Professor Flitwick asked, looking over the shoulder of Kevin Entwhistle, who offered up the exam to his head of house. 

“I did,” said Roswitha, with a small shrug. “Since I’ve been teaching the class. Hermione wrote my exam in the interest of fairness.” 

Professor Snape shook his head at this answer, muttering something which sounded vaguely like, “I ought to have known,” before he exited without ceremony. 

Professor McGonagall huffed at his abrupt departure, saying, “You will still need a proctor.” 

“I’ll stay,” said Professor Flitwick, handing Kevin back his exam. “I am the only one with this block free, very technically.” 

Professor Sprout nodded at this. “I _should _see how the sixth years are fairing with the dragon tree cuttings.” 

McGonagall huffed, “And the NEWT students are no doubt panicking. Call if you need, though, Filius – I’ll get them settled in revision and then I should be able to get away if need be.”

“Off you go then,” said Professor Flitwick, waving them off. “This lot have been managing without a teacher for the whole year. No doubt we can muddle through an exam.” 

With the other professors departed, Flitwick took his place at the teacher’s chair, charming to extend so he could see overtop the desk, and summoned his own work from elsewhere in the castle. After they had all taken a moment to marvel at this display, the students turned back to their exam. 

Roswitha was pleased when most of them finish the exam before the period was out as it meant they must have learned most, if not all, of the material she had taught them. She was even more pleased when Auror Shacklebolt, Auror Jones (Nym’s official trainer), Nym, and seven other auror trainees arrived for the practical portion of the exam. 

“Oh my,” said Professor Flitwick. “What’s this then?” 

“Aurors Shacklebolt and Jones assure me that getting disarmed is a standard part of auror training,” said Roswitha, smiling. “So, they have graciously volunteered their trainees for us to test on. You have two tries to disarm them. We’ll also be testing on _diffindo _and _protego_ before you demonstrate two spells we’ve covered of your own choosing.” 

“Oh is that all?” Vincent Crabbe muttered, though he had a little grin as he said it, and everyone knew his tone enough to giggle. 

“Be glad I didn’t test you on how your meditation is coming,” said Roswitha, wiggling her eyebrows. “Since that’s still technically a summer assignment. Desks against the walls, please.” 

Before any of the elder witches or wizards could cast some sort of a packing charm the second years had pushed their desks against the wall. Roswitha requested the auror trainees to stand in the front of the classroom and everyone else to go in equal lines. The aurors readied their dummy wands (using real wands too many times would cause conflict of ownership, Nym had explained when Roswitha voiced concern), and Roswitha stood off to one side with a clipboard as the first group cast. 

She wrote down her remarks on form, if the disarming had been successful and to what extent. Roswitha looked up from her markings at one point to see Professor Flitwick marking the same on the other side of the lines. She tried not to pout at this — Professor Flitwick was usually the sort who meant well and did right by his students. Likely, he was only trying to help her keep track or give his opinion as a charms master. 

When everyone had gone through the lines for the disarming charm, the aurors pulled out their real wands, and on Roswitha’s count they cast _aguamenti_ at the students. The students, all very used to being doused with water at this point, all managed to cast shield charms successfully — some did hold up better than others though, which Roswtiha noted as she reviewed them. 

The cutting charm was last and for this the auror trainees were excused. No matter how well executed, the cutting charm was not one you wanted to cast near another person in practice (even though, as one of Roswitha’s test questions had inquired about, the cutting charm was less effective on living matter than dead matter, so the aurors were less likely to be hurt by it than have their robes cut). Roswitha had chosen a length of thick rope as the test to cut through — and had decided after trying out the spell herself that cutting into two of the twisted strands that made up the rope would earn a passing grade. This test took the longest, but in Roswitha’s opinion it was worth the practice. 

After that, everyone demonstrated their two spells that they had learned over the course of the year. Some of them were spells they had all practiced together, but more than half tried spells they had researched on their own time. It filled Roswitha up with a warm sensation from her toes up through her belly to see that everyone had done so much work to prepare themselves. 

“And what about you, cos’?” Nym asked as Roswitha was writing her final remarks on Blaise Zabini’s spells. 

“Of course _she_ knows all these spells,” said Ron, rolling his eyes from the back of the classroom. “She taught them to us.”

“Mind your tone, Weasley, or I’ll tell your brothers on you,” said Nym with a wide grin. 

Ron only looked tempted to say soemthing more or perhaps make a rude gesture. 

Roswitha, meanwhile, only shrugged and left her clipboard on a nearby desk. “Alright, cos’ I’m game if you are.” 

Nymphadora grinned and pulled out the dummy wand, ready for Roswitha. “Ready? One… two…”

“_Expelliarmus!” _Roswitha cried, the dummy wand launching from Nym’s hand, up into the air, and then to Roswitha’s hand as she stretched it out. 

“Oooo,” murmured several of her classmates. Roswitha was the only one of them who had managed such a strong expulsion.

Nym didn’t count off her next move, but Roswitha saw her moving soon enough to cast, “_Protego,_” soon enough that the water splashed right off. In fact, while Roswitha remained dry, Nym, Auror Shacklebolt and Auror Jones all got wet. 

“Easy there, Tonks,” Jones muttered, drying herself off. 

“Yes, Auror Jones,” said Nym nodding. “Alright, cos’, let’s see how you do with this one.” Nym took one of the pieces of rope in hand, rather than tying the ends off to something. “And mind that you don’t send me to see my father with this one.” 

“Hold it above your head,” said Roswitha, frowning. She was reasonably sure she wouldn’t hit Nym — but she reasoned a blow to the knuckles would be better than one to the face. 

Before any of the other adults could suggest that it wasn’t a good idea at all for Nym to be holding the rope no matter where she held it, Roswitha had already cast. The rope did not sever all the way, but Roswitha managed to cut it half way through and leave Nym completely whole. The adults all breathed a sigh of relief, and Professor Flitwick even managed, “Well done Miss Black — what did you have in mind for your other two spells?” 

Roswitha had to think for a moment to narrow it down to just two — she had not been expected to test on the practical portion. After a moment, she decided to go with the first two that had come to mind. “Mind if I cast on you, Auror Tonks?” Roswitha asked. 

Nym nodded in short order. “Go ahead.” 

“_Incarcerous!” _Ropes flung from the end of Roswitha’s wand and wrapped around Nym in neat coils, tying off behind Roswitha. 

Several of the other auror trainees snickered at Nym’s state — Roswitha privately thought it was no laughing matter as Nym still stood upright and had command of her wand. 

“Do any of you know the counter spell to this?” Auror Jones asked, making all the auror trainees go quiet and several of the second years raise their hands (which then started a battle of trying to hold down the others’ hands while still having yours raised). “You should _never _laugh at your fellows — you will one day need to count on them to help save you. Never with hold information either. And while I appreciate the enthusiasm, students, I wonder if Auror Tonks knows.”

“Erm,” said Nym, trying to keep still. “It would be emitto, wouldn’t it?” 

“Try it out, Tonks,” said Auror Jones, giving her a nod. 

Nym managed to angle her wand to point back at herself, though could not make any movements, and cast, “_Emitto_.” The ropes fell away and slumped on the floor. Nym rolled her shoulders and shook out one foot, which must have lost a little feeling when tied up. “Well, that’s useful, though I’m a little scared to ask what your next one will be.” 

Roswitha shrugged. “Lumos Maxima,” she said evenly. 

As one, several of her peers and a few of the auror trainees muttered, “but that isn’t a defense spell.” 

“Anything is a defense spell if used properly,” said Auror Shacklebolt. “I strongly suspect that Miss Black could blind everyone here with a max light spell long enough to run away — especially since I am given to understand she runs quite quickly. Now, what’s the spell to shield from light?” 

Here, no one had a guess except Hermione, so Kingsley gave the auror trainees a dismissive shake of his head before turning to say, “Yes, Miss Granger, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” said Hermione with a nod. “_Sepio_, would work, especially when modified with _occuli_.” 

“In what order?” Kingsley asked, tilting his head slightly to one side. 

“_Sepio occuli_,” Hermione clarified. 

“Ten points to Gryffindor,” said Professor Flitwick, from where he had stood observing. The professor pushed on, kindly ignoring how Hermione flushed when she realized that all eyes were on her, and said, “Students, I advise you cast this on yourself — a simple tap to the temple should suffice and a _finite_ when you wish to finish it. You too, Miss Black.”

Roswitha cast the spell on herself and found the effect similar to wearing sunglasses as she blinked with the spell cast on her.

“When you’re ready,” said Professor Flitwick, smiling at her. 

Roswitha swallowed down her hesitation. She inhaled deeply and on her exhale, she swished her wand and cast, “_Lumos maxima_.” 

The light took a moment to build up, but Roswitha imagined herself grasping her magic and feeding it gently through the tip of her wand until the whole room filled with her light. Even with the spell protecting her eyes, Roswitha still found spots growing in her eyes, so she released the spell. To Auror Shacklebolt’s point, however, she dashed from the room and pressed herself against the corridor wall before the light had faded from the room. 

Draco poked his head out of the class room a minute later, shaking his head. “You do move quickly.”

Roswitha gave a little shrug. “I do my best.” 

The rest of the afternoon wrapped up smoothly. Professor Flitwick had indeed made remarks on the students, as had Aurors Shacklebolt and Jones. Roswitha took their notes with their own, as well as the exam papers to mark later on (when her own exams were done, she promised). Their DADA, Potions and Transfiguration exams done that night in the club house meant they revised all their history, charms and astronomy. 

But Roswitha did fret a little, mostly over astronomy and trying to remember the names of stars in different constellations. But by the end of Thursday their exams were finished — everyone’s exams were finished. On Friday morning it was as if the whole school had taken a sigh of relief. The whole school except for Lavender — for that morning she got a note from Professor McGonagall about holding the play in the Great Hall that night. Roswitha returned from her occlumency lesson to find all the girls crowded around an ashen and tense Lavender.

Parvati sat up behind Lavender rubbing her shoulders and had given Roswitha the solemn duty of fanning Lavender. “It’s a good thing, Lav!” said Parvati. “People want to come and see your show.” 

“But the _whole school?”_ Lavender asked, looking a little pale. “I thought it would just be our year, maybe some of Fred and George’s mates since they’ve been working on the play.” 

“So, we’ll just make believe that it is our year and we’re still having it in the club house like we planned,” said Fay, soothingly at Lavender’s other knee. “It’ll be grand, you’ll see — everyone’s practiced loads and knows all their lines. And we’ve got all of our costumes and everything’s ready.” 

Hermione and Sophie were keeping quiet because their version of logic (which was, at this point the play would either fail or it wouldn’t) quite frightened Lavender. 

Roswitha was trying to think of what Dean would say or do in this moment, as he was really better about the emotions of other people. All she could come up with was, “Have you been doing your meditation practice, Lavender?” 

Lavender looked up from her crisis just briefly and nodded. 

“Alright then, let’s practice just now, it’ll help to calm down,” said Roswitha nodding to her. “Deep breath in, hold… and breath out. Good, now again.” 

All six girls squared up, crossing their legs (except Parvati who still knelt behind Lavender) and sat up straight, breathing with Roswitha’s instructions. When everyone’s breathing had evened out, Roswitha lead them through some meditative exercises, but limited herself to their five minute practice time. 

Lavender still looked a little panicked when they finished, but the warm color had returned to her deep brown skin. “Thanks, Ros,” she said, rolling her neck in a circle. “I needed that.” She huffed then added, “I guess we’ve got a show to get ready for.” 

Lavender sufficiently calmed, if not completely, the play team went to do just that. Roswitha went with, as with exams done, she had no homework and could at least help put up the set. 

As it turned out, Lavender turned out to be made of pretty stern stuff — the Great Hall closed after breakfast to allow the players to put up the set where the head table normally sat. Professor Flitwick and Hagrid made themselves available to help with any heavy lifting — Professor Flitwick even managed to put up a long red curtain so as to keep out any one wanting peep in while they broke for lunch. 

When they went out to lunch, though, Roswitha saw a familiar blonde head studying the curtain. “Luna!” she cried racing toward Luna. 

Luna placidly accepted Roswitha’s hug, and even returned it, reaching out to hug Ron next as he approached. “Hello, everyone — did Hogwarts get a private dining section while I was petrified?” 

“We’re putting on a play!” said Lavender, grinning. “Is everyone awake then?”

Luna nodded. “They woke Penelope and I first — Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape should be getting to the others just now. Oh, how rude, this is my father, Xenophilius.” Luna gestured to the man standing over her shoulder who, now that their hugs were finished, had placed a hand on Luna’s shoulder. 

“Hello Mr. Lovegood!” they chimed as one. 

“Hello, children,” said Mr. Lovegood with a smile. He had bags under his eyes, but his smile was genuine and the rest of him seemed relaxed. “A play! How exciting. Do you want to stay to see the play, poppet?” 

“Please may we, Daddy?” Luna asked, looking up at him directly by tilting her head back. “I’ve never seen a play before.” 

“Oh very well,” said Mr. Lovegood with a smile. “But first we must have some food. Good-bye for now, children.” 

“Good-bye Mr. Lovegood,” they said together. 

“We should go find Percy,” said Fred, looking between George and Ron.

George nodded. “Let him know Penelope will be up.” 

“There he is,” said Ron, pointing toward the doors of the Great Hall, where there stood a tall lad with red hair — he was not alone. It seemed Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were with him. The Weasley lads made their excuses and rushed off to Percy and their parents.

Slowly, as the Great Hall filled up, they realized that more and more parents were present. Those who had not been present that fall were present, including the Patils and the Browns. Slowly, everyone had split off to go looking for their families except for Neville. Roswitha didn’t blame him. Instead, she held out her hand and asked, “Want to help me find my Pappa?” 

Neville gave a little smile and nodded emphatically. 

Pappa was quite easy to find as he had entered the hall with Father, and Father left a trail behind him as people parted to get out of his way. 

“Is everyone alright then?” Roswitha asked by way of greeting. 

“Hello to you too, darling heart,” said Pappa, dryly as he raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to try that again?”

Roswitha flushed, but dutifully replied, “Hello, Pappa, hello, Father. Sorry for being rude just now.”

Pappa and Father shared a look before Father said, “You’re forgiven, child. And yes, everyone has been given the Mandrake Draught with the exception of Lockhart.” Before Roswitha could ask why, Father waved her off. “There are aurors of the law involved, child, that’s all you need know. It was all I needed to know when they asked me to leave. Now, come and have lunch, children.” 

Since the high table had been moved to make way for the stage, Father ate with them and Pappa quizzed them about how they had done on exams. 

“I think I did well enough on all of them — except herbology, since that’s my best subject,” said Neville when Pappa asked. “And Ros’ exam — I’m almost certain I got at least an E on that one.” He looked to her for confirmation. 

Roswitha tapped her chin, thinking. “I’d have to look over my notes, but I think you scored at least that high. You did really well on your practical exam at least — and those spells were also on the written exam so there’s a good chance you did.”

“I’m sorry, ‘Ros’ exam?’” Pappa asked, again raising an eyebrow. 

“Well,” said Roswitha, trying not to flush. “I have been teaching the class all year — so I wrote an exam. Hermione wrote a version for me, and Professor Flitwick graded my practical.” 

Pappa shook his head. “Darling heart, I am very proud of you for having done so well this year — but it’s just hit me that no student should have to take on the responsibilities you have.” Here he looked up at Father. “Please, please tell me they have hired someone remotely competent for next year?”

“Competent, yes,” Father grumbled. “Even if I’m not pleased with it — he passed his board confirmation though even with the ardent purists present.” 

“Who’s this?” Roswitha asked. 

“Mr. Lupin,” said Pappa, gently, taking Father’s hand as he did. “And you’ll remember your father’s rule that he set last year, even if Lupin will be a Professor next year, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” said Roswitha, trodding gently on Neville’s foot as he opened his mouth. “Pappa are you staying for the play tonight?”

“Indeed I am,” said Pappa, a smile returning to his face. “I’m eager to see if Lavender’s production is more faithful to the book.” There he winked at Neville and all of them had a good chuckle. 

Pappa sent her off after lunch to finish helping prepare for the play so he might have some time alone with Father. However, the stage was set with all the set changes prepared not long after lunch, since they had put so much time during the morning that Roswitha had nothing further to help with. So, she went up to the dorm and fetched all the defense exams, a pen filled with red ink, and, as it was a nice day, found a comfortable place on the grounds to read over them and mark. 

When Roswitha looked up from a particularly difficult to read exam, she found Dr. Scamander had made herself comfortable not three feet from Roswitha and she was marking exams as well. When Dr. Scamander noticed Roswitha was watching, she looked up and said, “Tea?” before offering out a pot and cup. 

Dr. Scamander also made notice when the day began to turn and said, “That’s enough marking for now — time for supper.” 

“I didn’t even get through half my exams,” said Roswitha, muttering to herself. 

“I do wonder why Minerva’s even letting you mark those,” said Dr. Scamander as they walked up to the castle together. 

“Well, I was the one with the key,” said Roswitha easily. Besides, even if it meant more work for her, she had written the exam, it was hers. She wanted to be the one to mark it, even if she could make heads or tales of some of the handwriting. 

“Even so,” said Dr. Scamander with a kind smile, “do remember to ask for help if you need it.” 

Roswitha agreed and they went their separate ways to wash up for supper. Roswitha found the dorm in a great state as the girls who were in the actual play were post baths and working on makeup. Hermione, who was helping manage the stage, was working through various black garments in the other girls’ wardrobes to have a full outfit. Roswitha selected a pair of black denims from her own wardrobe and passed them over for Hermione to try on before she went to have her own bath. 

Lavender confronted her as she came out, still in her towel. “I’ve laid out a dress for you to wear, and you should plait your hair with your beads— it looks pretty that way. We’re going to be eating in the antechamber so we can go on to stage directly after supper.”

“Break a leg,” said Roswitha as the rest of them scarperred off and out of the dorm. 

Roswitha might normally have protested such treatment, but she let it go since Lavender was so nervous about the whole thing. The dorm stood quiet as it was emptied, so Roswitha took her time brushing her hair and plaiting it with the hair beads cousin Narcissa had given her and pinning it just away from her face. Once she had on her socks and shift, Roswitha basked for the quiet for a moment. Then, finding it too odd to be quiet in a place which normally wasn’t, she continued to dress.

The dress Lavender had picked was a dress that Roswitha had acquired from the family vaults when she had first inherited them. At the time it had been much to large for her to wear, but she had kept it, and now that she had grown in height it now fit her much better. The frock was a deep green color, with sleeves that make a kind of bell shape before they fastened down to her wrist. The collar was two inches high and fastened around her throat almost like a ribbon might, except with buttons than ran from the collar down the back of the dress. The bottom hem flowed down to her ankles and had no natural seam to pull it in at all. To that end, Lavender had included a belt that Roswitha believed normally belonged to Parvati, but fastened well around Roswitha’s waist. There were also a pair of matching beaded slippers, which Roswitha did not recognize so must have belonged to Lavender. 

Roswitha felt quite grown up when she had finished dressing. She spun around a few times, watching the dress float down around her when she finished spinning. When she began to felt dizzy, Roswitha wandered down to the common room with her satchel to wait for supper. 

The common room was similarly empty, and Roswitha realized that most people must be with their parents for visiting day. The empty common room also felt a little eerie, so she decided to make her way down to see if she might be allowed to help with final play preparations or find her parents if not.

The Great Hall was closed tight, though the entry way doors were wide open, and Roswitha could hear a wealth of voices. The lawn had been decorated with floating lanterns which were glowing in the twilight to illuminate the many different tables that normally occupied the Great Hall but now sat out on the grass. Roswitha took a moment to admire the floating lanterns before she found Narcissa Malfoy standing right in front of her.

“My dear Roswitha,” said Narcissa with a smile as looked Roswitha up and down. “Come and let me look at you.” 

Roswitha presented herself for inspection which she thought she passed by evidence of Narcissa’s cooing. 

“And where did you get this delightful dress?” Narcissa asked, with a genuine smile as she lead Roswitha over to a table occupied by Pappa, Father, and Lucius. 

“It was in one of the family vaults,” said Roswitha, taking a seat between her parents. 

Narcissa pouted. “Really? I’ve never seen one like it.”

“I have,” said Father. He frowned as if he were looking at a complex potion equation. “This exact dress in fact, but I cannot think of where.” 

Draco appeared over her shoulder, taking the seat next to her, once he had made all the formal salutations, and looked her over. “Nice dress, cos’.” 

They talked a little more of fashion, a little of Roswitha’s and Draco’s classes they had planned for next year, how they had done on this year’s exams and the like. When mentioned, Roswitha smoothly steered the conversation away from the defense research they had done to disprove Lockhart, with Draco’s help, as the second years were still undergoing drafts of writing about their research. There had already been many tears involved and no one group had finished an essay yet. Instead, they talked of lighter things, like politics and why there was an auror presence at Hogwarts again, so soon after reopening without one. 

Here, Lucius and Father only smiled wanly at them and told them to eat their dinner. 

Subjects successfully avoided by all, Draco and Roswitha toasted one another. 

The play went off without a single hitch — the curtains rose when they were supposed to, the props worked as they should, and everyone remembered their lines. The crowd gasped at Jonathan’s struggle, cried at Lucy’s death, and cheered in the evil count’s defeat. Lavender looked positively delighted as the cast came out to take their final bows. 

Roswitha worked hard over the next few days to mark all the defense exams, both written and practical, taking refuge in Father’s office as he did his own marking so that no when would ask her questions. She completed them by Sunday evening and realized she had no idea what to do with them from there. Father, as if sensing her confusion, passed her a fresh sheet of parchment. “Write down the names and the compiled grades and give it to Professor McGonagall when you are finished.” 

Professor McGonagall accepted the parchment and paused before asking, “Do you feel up to marking some other exams if you have the time?” 

Roswitha only blinked before she asked, “Could I bring Hermione with me?” 

“Certainly,” said Professor McGonagall with a nod. “I would dearly appreciate the help with the other years’ Defense Against the Dark Arts exams.” 

Ron pouted when Roswitha and Hermione went to go grade exams after supper that night. “The rest of us aren’t invited?” 

“Do you really mean to say that you,” Hermione asked, rolling her eyes, “yes, you specifically, Ron Weasley, are upset that we didn’t invite you to grade exams?” 

“Yes,” said Ron, folding his arms across his chest. 

Roswitha huffed. “Anyone who wants to come, come along, then.”

Naturally, the rest of the pride came with. McGonagall looked slightly put out, but Roswitha took the other four years of exams and divided them out among her peers, copying the answer keys when necessary. Between the ten of them, grading did go much more quickly, as they were done before curfew with four other years. Roswitha conceded that written exams were much easier to grade than written _and_ a practical exam. Professor McGonagall accepted the final grades with a fond smile and shooed them off toward the dormitories. 

The rest of the year was mostly spent on finishing any research they had on Lockhart’s Follies (which Hermione was considering for the title of their book series), writing out their essays on such matter in their groups, and borrowing typewriters from Professor Snape’s office to type out their works. NEWT students, now finished with their exams and their academic careers at Hogwarts, frequently came around to offer advice on writing, or to help type out the essays. Several of them asked where they might purchase “such an ingenious machine.” When they finished the essays, which at that point _were _all the length of short books, they passed the essays off to their Professors for a final proof — Dr. Scamander and Professor Kettleburn would fact check and the others would comment on their writing. A nerve wracking process to be sure — the worst was that they would have to wait until after they left for the term to get their first comments back. 

Before they knew it, everyone was packing their trunks for the end of the year. Anthony Goldstein gave Roswitha his address, as did Susan Bones, and the yeti research group, so they could keep in touch over the summer. 

Mostly, Roswitha breathed a sigh of relief that the year was done. She would not need to teach this summer, or even next year, and this summer she might even learn more about who her mother had been. For once it seemed like things were looking up. 

With her spirit raised in those final days, she board the train with her friends, played rounds of exploding snap and reading books together. For once, it seemed like the train trip could have been longer, as when they pulled into King’s Cross, it seemed like she had spent hardly any time with her friends at all. 

Still, when she met Pappa on the platform, Roswitha hugged him tightly. 

“Ready to go home?” Pappa asked. 

“Couldn’t be more ready.” Roswitha grinned up at him and they walked away together, hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might be a bit of an anticlimax, but I wanted to tie up all my loose ends. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
